
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


His 

Baltimore Madonna 


CHARLES WEATHERS BUMP 


ww * comm ar 

190 * 




COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




















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His Baltimore Madonna 

AND 

OTHER STORIES 

BY 

CHARLES WEATHERS BUMP 



MUNN l b COMPANY 
BALTIMORE 
1906 


ll 

Copyright 1906 by Charles Weathers Bump 
All Rights Reserved 

Acknowledgment is due The Baltimore News 
for aid in reprinting these stories 





Presswork by 

Tbe Horn-Sbafer Company 
Baltimore, Md. 



TWELVE STORIES 


His Baltimore Madonna ». 7 

Imprisoned 27* 

The Girl in Garnet 37 

His Little Nest for Two 50 

The Woman s Soul Had Changed 59 

The Clytie s Passenger 71 

A Half-Tone Flirtation 84 

Chased by the Barye Lion 90 

“My Violet" 102 

The Surrender of Adoniram J 110 

“The Same Old Story" 120 

The Rosary from Montmartre 129 



To 


MY BEST-LOVED CRITIC 

I Joyously Dedicate 
Tkese Stories Ske Has Seen Grow 



His Baltimore Madonna, 


When Jack got through at the Johns 
Hopkins his father, the Judge, told him 
he could spend a summer abroad. Prob- 
ably the old gentleman, sitting in the 
library of his country home up in the 
Blue Ridge, thought that the lad might 
put in some more months of hard study 
at Heidelberg or Bonn. But Jack very 
promptly knocked that in the head by 
writing to “the Governor” that he was 
about due for a good time. He asked for 
cash and, when he got it, attached him- 
self to a jolly crowd of college men, who, 
for the fun of it, elected to go “across the 
briny” as cattle-feeders on a Johnston 
liner, and left Baltimore the day after 
Jack and a large batch had paraded up 
in cap and gown to hear Dr. Remsen 
say: “By the authority of the trustees of 
this University I hereby admit you to 
the degree of Bachelor of Arts and to all 
the honors, rights and privileges unto 
that degree appertaining.” 

After London had been reached and 
headquarters established in one of the 
hundreds of boarding-houses clustered 
around the British Museum and so lib- 
erally patronized of Americans, the va- 
ried tastes of the half dozen young fel- 
lows asserted themselves. One found in- 
spiration after inspiration in the East 
End, watching the working out of hu- 
manitarian schemes for the uplifting of 


7 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 

the submerged tenth. Another was ever 
on the qui vive for adventures, a third 
liked the suburbs and a fourth patron- 
ized Irving and Mrs. “Pat” Campbell 
from a seat in the pit. But Jack had 
some artistic taste innate in him, and it 
was but a day or two before he had 
turned his steps to Trafalgar square and 
buried himself in the National Gallery; 
which action led to his obtaining his 
first glimpse of a face that was to play 
some part in his future. 

The face was on a small canvas in a 
small and comparatively insignificant 
room of the gallery. The catalogue said 
that it was a Madonna, but there was no 
babe in the picture, nor did any gilded 
aureole surround the head in the cus- 
tomary style of Catholic pictures of the 
Virgin. Nothing but a woman’s face, in 
a strong but not garish light, the exquis- 
iteness of which was made to stand out 
by a quiet background and a hood of 
dainty blue shade, drawn close under the 
chin in such fashion as to almost con- 
ceal the glossy dark hair which hung 
over the forehead. The woman was 
young, and in her countenance the artist 
seemed to have been intent upon convey- 
ing all the innate purity, sweetness and 
sacredness of young womanhood. There 
was naught insipid, naught jarring. All 
was exquisite and adorable. And Jack, 
with the chivalric devotion of youth for 
such a type, stood long before the can- 
vas. The dark eyes looked out at him 
with much realism from beneath dark 
eyelashes and the cheek and chin were 
painted to convey a very lifelike idea of 
the softest satin skin. 


8 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


‘ vVhat a pleasure it would be to know 
a girl of such purity and nobility of 
character!” thought he, with the senti- 
ment of 21. The catalogue told him that 
the artist had been a Seventeenth Cen- 
tury Italian known as ”11 Sassoferrato,” 
and Jack, with the characteristic hu- 
mor and flippancy of young America, 
immediately fixed the name in his mem- 
ory by associating it with “Sausage-for- 
us-two,” and resolved to go to the Brit- 
ish Museum, get out innumerable vol- 
umes and learn more of the painter and, 
if possible, of his model. 

The next morning he was back at the 
National Gallery. Vainly he had tried to 
persuade his companions that they were 
missing a glimpse of an angel. His 
thoughts ran on so swiftly tnat he al- 
most fancied himself the discoverer of a 
new genius, and in consequence began to 
feel a proprietary right in the two-by- 
three canvas. It was his Madonna hence- 
forth, and with an absorbed air that 
must have proved amusing to other gal- 
lery visitors, he gave up an hour to its 
critical study— first sitting on a couch to 
get a square front view at some dis- 
tance, then moving up to the railing, 
then to the right, then to the left. 

As he went out he stopped at a table 
near the door, and for sixpence pur- 
chased a small photograph of Sassofer- 
rato’s work. He did not show it to the 
others, and that afternoon he went along 
the Strand, hunted up an art dealer, and 
for a larger sum purchased a good en- 
graving of it, which he sent home that 
night to his mother in the mountains of 
Maryland, accompanied by a letter in 


9 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


which he asked her to have it framed 
and hung in a prominent place. “Such a 
sweet, adorable soul as there stands 
forth luminously,” he wrote, “calls forth 
the best and noblest impulses of all but 
the most abandoned of men. I know you 
will agree with me that the most inter- 
esting study of man is womankind, and 
that there is much to be learned of char- 
acter in this countenance.” 

His mother framed the picture. 

II. 

On the last Sunday before their de- 
parture for Paris, the Johns Hopkins 
party rode out on the top of a ’bus to 
Hampton Court Palace. It was a glori- 
ous summer day. Crowds lined the banks 
of the Thames, the gardens were plenti- 
fully peopled, many got lost in the fa- 
mous maze, and hundreds walked through 
the historic State Apartments, whose 
walls were hung with portraits and pic- 
tures by the old masters. 

In the room in which Henry VIII. had 
slept Jack had a very decided surprise. 
The guidebook told him that there was a 
Sassoferrato there, a Mary Magdalene, 
and eagerly he looked up its correspond- 
ing number on the wall. It was with an 
evident shock that he found the Ma- 
donna face of Trafalgar square mas- 
querading as the Magdalene face at 
Hampton Court. Absolutely the only 
marked difference between the two pic- 
tures was the fact that the model had 
worn a scarlet instead of a blue hood. 
The mouth was more mutinous, the 
glance more alluring, but the model had 
evidently been the same. 

No man can be more grieved than a 


10 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


youth whose ideals are suddenly over- 
thrown or whose dreams are hastily up- 
set in such fashion, and for several days 
Jack was dreadfully blue. But that same 
youth which gave him ideals also gave 
him hope and buoyancy, and not a week 
passed before he was entering with as 
much zest as usual into the Parisian ad- 
ventures of the party. 

Then came another blow. Sassoferrato 
was represented in the Louvre by sev- 
eral pictures. They were all of the same 
model, not so plain of purpose as the 
Magdalene, not so pure as the Madonna, 
but as insipid a group of faces as can 
well be fancied; no character, no firm- 
ness, no animation— nothing save Italian 
baby-doll prettiness. Standing in front 
of one of them one day, sorrowing, Jack 
was surprised to hear one say in his ear, 
in French: 

“Pretty woman, monsieur, but a ter- 
magant, and terribly wild.” 

He turned and glanced at the stranger. 
It was an oldish man of a German-Jew- 
ish type, with kindly glance and thought- 
ful countenance. 

“How do you know, sir?” replied Jack 
to the remark. “Is it simply your read- 
ing of character in this picture?” 

Somehow or other the man’s laugh 
grated on Jack’s sensibilities. “Read a 
woman’s face! The wisest men in that 
are dullards, sir. A woman’s character 
is not unfathomable, but five years are 
required in preparations to throw out a 
line. Mon dieu, monsieur, do not, I beg, 
put your trust in a woman’s countenance. 
What I know of Sassoferrato’s model 
can be read by every student of art his- 


11 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


tory. It is the same story as that which 
clouded many another painter’s life." 

Jack had met the type of his companion 
often before in the Peabody Library— 
bookwormish, enthusiastic on the past, 
a failure in the present, adoring his own 
hobby, studying day after day on it, yet 
writing nothing, earning nothing, doing 
nothing; probably loving nothing more 
human than the dust of his old tomes. 
It was possible that this old man was a 
veritable Bayle of painters' anecdotes, 
and so Jack, who had never carried out 
his plan of reading up on Sassoferrato, 
was delighted at the opportunity, and 
eagerly pressed upon the stranger to 
leave the Louvre for a bottle of wine at 
a nearby cafe. In a few moments they 
were seated at a little table on the side- 
walk fti front of a trim restaurant on 
the Rue Jean Jacques Rousseau. 

There, over the vin rouge, Jack listened 
to the career of Sassoferrato’s model. 
"Did you ever hear of Therese Levas- 
seur?" his companion asked. The name 
seemed familiar. "Do you not recall the 
spiteful, uninteresting creature who for 
years tormented the famous French 
philosopher after whom this street is 
named?" In an instant all the stories 
of Rousseau’s intimacy with the seam- 
stress who was made notorious by it 
flitted across Jack’s imagination. Then 
the old antiquary, delving down into his 
"story-house,” made the youth acquaint- 
ed with a very much similar tale, in 
which Sassoferrato and his Madonna 
model were the central figures. It was a 
story that disgusted while it interested. 
She of the saintly expression was but a 
drunken, brazen creature, whose face 


12 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


had been etherealized by those gifts 
which God had given the artist who was 
her lover. Their quarrels were rare gos- 
sip in the Rome of their day. Once, in 
maudlin frenzy, she had hurled a wash- 
bowl at one of the artist’s canvases, and 
the destruction of his work had so en- 
raged Sassoferrato that he had thrown a 
knife at the virago and laid her cheek 
open in an ugly way. To this and much 
more Jack listened mechanically. It was 
as if he were undergoing torture, and so 
painful was it all that he almost forgot 
to thank his companion when they ex- 
changed cards and parted after the wine 
was drunk. 

III. 

That night the Baltimoreans went to the 
Bal Bullier, the renowned students’ ball 
in the Latin Quarter. The frolic and 
riot were new to the party, and enjoy- 
able. Such a motley assemblage of 
grown people, behaving like children, 
was not seen every day, and the pranks, 
the loud jests and the wild dancing were 
drunk in with interest. 

“Vous donnez vous de garde, messieurs. 
Voici la belle douce.” 

The voice was loud and imperative 
and the crowd good-naturedly parted. 
Through the gap Jack could see the 
cause of commotion. Two athletic-look- 
ing students were hauling a girl down 
the slippery floor, the trio evidently 
bent on tripping up the unfortunate ones 
who were not quick enough in getting 
out of their way. The girl’s little feet 
plowed along with rapidity and her 
slender body just skimmed the floor as 
she leaned back and trusted to the 


13 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


strength of the two boisterous fellows 
who held her by her hands, one on each 
side. A fat Frenchman, with a tall dark 
woman, drew unwarily into the cleared 
space. The mischief-makers saw them, 
the escorts veered their way, the girl 
saucily poked her foot further from un- 
der her laces and dexterously, very dex- 
terously, inserted it between the fat 
man’s feet. The fat man tottered and 
fell, his partner toppled against one of 
the two students, the girl rose to her feet 
with the agility of a swan, and, as the 
surrounding crowd shrieked with laugh- 
ter, she kicked the fat man’s silk hat 
into the air with the deftness of an M. 
A. C. punter. 

In a moment she had whirled around 
in search of new amusement and her 
face was turned toward Jack. Jack was 
staggered. 

The girl’s face was that of the Seven- 
teenth Century Madonna, his Madonna! 

She espied the group of young Ameri- 
cans. Her two friends had rejoined her, 
leaving the fat gentleman to lonely but 
deep imprecations. 

“Voila les Anglais,” said the girl. 

Yvette Guilbert had made popular in the 
cafe chantants just then a song, quite 
in her style, about English prudery. 
This harum-scarum lassie of the sub- 
merged section of Paris now started the 
chorus, and, as the by-standers chimed 
in, she joined hands with a half dozen 
of them, and made a whirling, grinning 
circle around the Hopkins boys. It was 
the “Ring Around the Rosy” of their 
childhood days, only the spirit of child- 
ish innocence was not in this mad car- 


14 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


magnole. 'The Americans stood like 
sheep. One of them had tried to break 
the circle, but “La belle douce" had held 
firmly to the hand of the girl next to 
her and laughed “Vous ne pouvez pas" 
with defiant glance. 

The volatile mob presently found en- 
joyment in another corner. The ring 
broke. Nearly every one flitted away, 
and Jack found the girl standing alone 
near him. When she was still for a mo- 
ment to gather breath after her romp 
he saw that her face had more of the 
Hampton Court Magdalene than of the 
London Madonna. Eyes were beauti- 
ful, eyelids and lashes long and dream- 
like, but the mouth more rebellious, the 
teeth more set, while the countenance, 
as a whole, though innocent, was de- 
cidedly more animated. It was as if 
some divine mistake had been made, as 
if in awakening the body to life, an- 
other soul, a hurtful soul, had been 
breathed into it. 

“Votre mouchoir, s’il vous plait.” 

Her voice was alluring in its sweet- 
ness. It was easy to see why she was 
so well known in the Latin Quarter as 
“La belle douce.” 

“Pardonnez moi?" Jack said, mechani- 
cally, not knowing, in his queer mad- 
ness, what she had said to him. 

“Bah, you stupide!" she replied, as she 
drew closer to him and plucked his silk 
handkerchief from an upper pocket. 
“You English are so slow. Not like my 
gallant Parisians, ma foi!” 

When she had used the silk to cool 
her flushed cheeks she put it in her 
bosom. She did it so artlessly that Jack 


15 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 

was not quite sure he had ever owned 
the kerchief. 

“It is warm tonight. You shall buy 
me a drink.” And, inserting her hand 
between his folded arm in a confiding 
manner she leaned close to him as she 
led him to the artificial palm garden in 
one corner of the room. 

“What will Mademoiselle have?” said 
Jack, suggestingly. 

“Bring us beer,” she said to the waiter. 
“Don’t call me Mamselle,” she said to 
Jack. “Everybody who knows me calls 
me Celeste. The men who paint me 
sometimes call me Madonna. The men 
who tire me by loving me call me dia- 
bolique. But you don’t think so, mon 
Anglais?” She leaned across the table 
and her breath fanned his cheek. 

“Do not call me English,” he said, as 
he gazed full into her eyes. “I am Amer- 
ican.” 

“Vous etes un Americain? Vous etes 
cet homme qui brifeait Monte Carlo?” 

“No, I am not the man who broke the 
bank.” 

“But you could?” 

“Ma foi, if you looked any more en- 
trancing, I would, little sprite.” 

The waiter had brought the beer and 
gone away. “I cannot sit still,” the girl 
cried, “I hate to do as other people do.” 
And with a light leap she had seated 
herself on the table with her feet on the 
bench at Jack’s side. 

“Kiss me now.” 

Jack kissed her. She seemed like a 
child to him in her artlessness. And as 
she sat there and prattled to him with 
the sprightliness of vivacious girlhood he 


16 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


learned that she was from Provencal; 
that her mother had been a model, and 
her life spent in the ateliers and cafe 
chantants. She was but 18, though she 
looked older. Her voice at times had 
that huskiness which long use of cigar- 
ettes often produces. 

Jack was in a peculiar frame of mind. 
Here was his Madonna in the flesh. He 
was attracted by her, yet he shrank 
from her. His ideals were too recently 
shattered to have become entirely dis- 
sipated, and he could not think of giving 
his affections to a girl whose every word 
told him what kind of a girl she was and 
would probably always be. A certain 
practical element which his nature had 
inherited with its tinge of romance pre- 
vented him from giving play to foolish 
fancies about taking the girl out of this 
life. He liked this particular girl, though 
he loathed her for having a saintly face 
which had become enwrapped in his sen- 
timental aspirations. 

Suddenly the girl leaned over and gazed 
at him earnestly. “You don’t like me,” 
she said with an abruptness that seemed 
characteristic of her. Jack protested, but 
Celeste was too quick-witted for him. 
“Sometimes you do, sometimes you don’t. 
I can read it in your eyes. Sometimes 
you feel like dashing me to the ground. 
Then you feel as if you could adore me. 
Why don’t you?’’ 

They were interrupted just then. One 
of the tall students who had been pulling 
Celeste through the ballroom returned 
and when he saw Celeste with the Amer- 
ican visitor, glowered with rage. Ad- 
vancing threateningly on Jack, he ges- 


17 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 

ticulated excitedly and asked him how he 
dared steal his inamorata. Jack was 
about to answer when Celeste inter- 
rupted. 

“Go away, you great booby,” she said 
to the irascible French lad. “Can’t I 
talk for two minutes to a stranger? I 
want no more to do with you. I hate 
you.” 

The brutality of the garcon’s nature 
asserted itself. Thrusting his long fin- 
ger into Celeste’s face, he called her 
names in vigorous fashion and in a high- 
pitched screaming voice. Celeste’s reply 
was a torrent of the same sort. Boule- 
vard terms, phrases of the Quartier Lat- 
in, which Jack sensed rather than really 
understood, poured forth in volume from 
her mouth. The Madonna face had van- 
ished. In its stead was the inflamed and 
distorted countenance of a fury, a wom- 
an almost a tigress. 

Jack was horrified. Idols had gone 
smash that night. Illusions were punc- 
tured. 

A moment later Celeste added physical 
assault to verbal attack. She leaped 
upon the French lad, dug into his cheeks 
with her nails, grappled with him and 
attempted to bite him. The youth struck 
out at her, with no thought of her sex. 
The crowd that had been attracted by 
the invective and the scrimmage grinned 
uproariously. Jack felt it his duty to 
stop the fight. He disengaged the girl’s 
hands and pulled her away from her an- 
tagonist. She had not expected any such 
interference. When she saw that it was 
Jack who was holding her she freed her 
right hand swiftly and struck him a 
stinging blow in the face. Jack released 


18 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


her involuntarily, and she sprang back 
at the French lad. Jack grappled with 
her again, this time with more force. 
Some of the managers of the ball, who 
had appeared through the crowd, aided 
him, while others drew off the jealous 
Parisian. Jack relinquished his grip 
upon Celeste, but the others held her and 
took her with them. As they dragged 
her away she upbraided Jack with the 
same vehemence she had before used to 
the other fellow. “Craven,” “coward” 
and “poltroon” were mild designations 
compared with some of the boulevardese 
with which Jack was bombarded. Her 
last taunts before she got out of ear- 
shot Jack never forgot. 

Leaving the ballroom dazed, he spent a 
mad night in walking the streets of 
Paris, reviewing the hour of his acquaint- 
ance with Celeste and readjusting his 
moral equilibrium to the changed condi- 
tions brought about by his untamed Ma- 
donna. He was, without comprehending 
it, an older and wiser man when he en- 
tered the portals of the hotel just as the 
fruit vendor at the corner was opening 
his kiosk for the day's business. 

The next day he left Paris. 

IV. 

Six months later he boarded a St. Paul 
street car in front of the Baltimore and 
Ohio Building. It was a cold, crisp Feb- 
ruary afternoon, and as he made his 
way to a seat his eye was attracted by 
the sable furs worn by a girl in a dark- 
green tailor-made suit who sat opposite. 
Jack sat down, unfolded his paper and 
was about to read it when, for the first 
time, he was in a position to see the face 


19 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


of the girl in the furs and broadcloth. 

Again he had met with the Madonna. 

The countenance of his vis-a-vis was 
that of the Sassoferrato paintings, but 
with a difference. There was naught of 
that abandon and boldness subtly sug- 
gested in the Magdalene picture and 
more openly expressed by Celeste of Bal 
Bullier memory. Nor, on the other hand, 
was there the simpering sweetness of 
the London Madonna. This time he had 
a third variety to fix his attention— a face 
in which the purity and appealing beauty 
that had first won him was illumined by 
the animation that accompanies frank, 
open-minded, healthy, athletic, young 
American womanhood. Even in repose, 
as the girl glanced over an illustrated 
magazine, the brightness and piquancy 
were too well suggested to be falsely 
forecast. Here was no placidly saccha- 
rine mediaeval demoiselle, but the Twen- 
tieth Century, up-to-date creature; the 
Madonna’s beauty reincarnate in the 
American girl; the face of Sassoferrato’s 
model set off by sable furs from Siberia 
and a hat from the latest Paris exhibit. 
It was, if one might be superlative, Sas- 
soferrato’s ideal idealized. Celeste, in 
the French capital, had repelled while 
she attracted; but to Jack there was no 
false note about this maiden in the Bal- 
timore street car. She was the one he 
had so often pictured and dreamed of 
since that day when a chance visit to 
the British gallery had first jostled into 
active mental life his earlier confused, 
half-formed standards of feminine pul- 
chritude. 

It seems superfluous to add that, hav- 


20 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


ing found her. Jack did not propose to 
lose his Baltimore Madonna, even if it 
demanded that he spy out her home. 
Fortunately for his conscience, the task 
was an easy one. As the car swung 
from Calvert into Read street, the girl, 
who had never once looked at him, or 
indeed at other masculines in the car, 
gathered up a couple of parcels, sig- 
naled the conductor and got off at St. 
Paul street. Jack was ahead of her in 
alighting, then stopped to scratch a 
match for his cigar. A biting wind 
came down Read street, and the girl, 
drawing her furs closer, started on a 
little run up St. Paul and plumped into 
one of the houses on the west side. It 
was near the dinner hour, and Jack 
had little doubt that she lived there and 
was returning home. Without further 
delay he boarded the next car and con- 
tinued to his own home. 

For three days he made himself a 
nuisance to his friends in a steady ef- 
fort to discover some one who knew the 
Madonna and would introduce him. His 
ingenuity invented methods that made 
him surprised at his own wit. One of 
his first steps was to pore intently 
over a copy of the Society Blue Book in 
order to find how many people he knew 
in the St. Paul-street block. He found 
six. Five did not know the girl or even 
her name. The sixth, caught on the 
wing after a hard search, supplied this 
last, but could not help Jack further. She 
was Miss Evelyn Haliburton, he said. Her 
father, now dead, had been a whole- 
sale flour merchant. The girl had been 
educated away, and had only returned 






21 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


the previous autumn and was therefore 
not widely known. 

Another week and Jack could not re- 
port further progress. The elation that 
had followed his discovery of her iden- 
tity had made way for bitter discour- 
agement. He felt that he would never 
know her. Then, all at once, the way 
was cleared and by accident. An invi- 
tation to a box party to see Sothern and 
Julia Marlowe at the Academy, accepted 
after some doubts, introduced him to 
several girl friends of his cousin. The 
second to whom he was presented was 
Miss Haliburton. Jack was so surprised 
and overjoyed that he actually stam- 
mered as he took the tips of the white- 
gloved hand she extended to him. Stam- 
mering was rare with Jack. He got over 
it soon, however, and was soon chatting 
eagerly with the Madonna. 

Before the party broke up that even- 
ing their acquaintance had progressed 
very satisfactorily to Jack. They had 
discovered a number of mutual friends, 
but most of all a number of similar 
tastes, a liking for certain pictures, for 
certain books, for certain corners of Eu- 
rope. She was just out of Bryn Mawr; 
he had finished that same June at the 
Johns Hopkins. The fellow-college 
spirit added a touch that accorded well 
with the ideas of both. A book, one 
much discussed just then, enabled Jack 
to get permission to call on St. Paul 
street. He had the book, she wished to 
read it. 

The theatre party was Thursday night. 
Jack’s wishes suggested Friday night as 
a suitable time for the first call. Self- 


22 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


control named Sunday afternoon. Jack 
compromised on late Saturday afternoon. 
He found some girl friends with Evelyn. 
There was little opportunity to advance 
their acquaintance. Mrs. Haliburton came 
in and wise Jack began a campaign to 
win her liking by an earnest talk, prac- 
tically ignoring the younger women. As 
he left, he invited mother and daughter 
to enjoy Nat Goodwin with him at Ford’s 
Tuesday night. The mother accepted. 

“A very sensible young man,” said 
Mrs. Haliburton as the door closed on 
Jack. ‘‘I always liked the Judge.” Eve- 
lyn said nothing. The other girls were 
still there. 

As the winter waned their acquaintance 
ripened into friendship and from friend- 
ship grew to such an intimacy that Jack 
was almost a daily caller. Books and 
pictures and such impersonal topics had 
long ago been overtopped by the strong- 
er clash and study of likes, dislikes, pur- 
poses and ambitions. There was a hearty 
comradeship between the two, which 
found fullest expression when— with the 
passing of the snows and the winds— the 
theatre, the afternoon tea, the picture 
dealer, the little downtown luncheon 
were supplanted by a full measure of 
outdoor life. Nothing suited both so 
well as an afternoon stroll in a quiet 
sentimental spot, and the squirrels in 
Wyman Park, the rabbits in the forest 
behind Woodland Hall and the birds 
along the Gwynn’s Falls millrace learned 
to know Jack and Evelyn. 

Jack was undeniably in love with Eve- 
lyn. In addition to his joy at having 
found his ideal Madonna vivified, each 


23 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


day revealed some new trait or impulse- 
that aroused his admiration and en- 
deared her more than ever. And yet, in 
spite of all this warm glow, he did not 
speak the final word. There were nights 
when he lay awake for hours and tried 
to reason down his doubts, but kill them 
he could not. With all his adoration of 
Evelyn's sweet, beautiful face, with all 
his appreciation of her fine qualities, he 
could not forget that the same features 
had been borne by Celeste ana cen- 
turies before her by the virago Sassofer- 
rato had painted upon canvas. It was 
deeply humiliating to him to think of 
the three women in the same train of 
ideas, but Jack simply could not help 
himself. Ashamed at his thoughts, eager 
to cast them aside, he could not bring; 
himself to the point of accepting Evelyn 
without reserve. His university instruc- 
tion in biology had hammered theories 
of heredity into him. His nature was 
prudent and cautious. His brief experi- 
ence with Celeste had driven home the 
disillusionment engendered by that old. 
antiquary’s anecdotes of the painter and 
his model. He was a doubter of women, 
most of all of the one woman he held 
dearest. Without some strong lesson to 
again shock him and arouse the right 
estimate of a truly good girl he was like- 
ly to wreck his own and her happiness. 

One day in June he called at her home 
to find Evelyn suddenly gone and Mrs. 
Haliburton excited and in tears. With 
volubility, but with many lapses in se- 
quence and sense, the elder lady made him 
acquainted with what she called Evelyn’s 
fatal madness. A letter had come that 
morning from some of the girl’s father’s 


24 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 


relatives down in Talbot county. She 
had spent some vacations there, and 
was attached to them. Now the house- 
hold was stricken with a dreaded epi- 
demic. Two members were down with 
and likely to die. They could not get 
nurses or supplies. Harsh local health 
authorities had raised quarantine bars 
and panic-stricken neighbors were en- 
forcing them. Evelyn had no sooner 
heard the dire news than she began to 
make preparations to go to the suffering 
household. Mrs. Haliburton had protest- 
ed, but Evelyn’s determination was un- 
breakable, and she had gone. 

Jack turned down St. Paul street when 
he left the house, his head whirling with 
emotions. The dominant all-compelling 
one was of joy that Evelyn had proved 
herself his true ideal. Glory in her he- 
roism had swelled the tide of adulation 
until his doubts were all engulfed. 

Fifteen minutes later he was at Light- 
street wharf, only to find that there was 
no boat to Easton for several hours. He 
had made up his mind to reach her side 
and ask that delayed question at once. 
Here he was, daunted at the outset. His 
disappointment was so evident that a 
kindly clerk made a suggestion. Why 
not use the long-distance ’phone if the 
matter were urgent? Jack did not stop to 
thank him. He was inside a booth in 
three minutes. To his joy he found that 
he could talk to the home of Evelyn’s 
relatives. 

The Madonna answered the call her- 
self after an intolerably slow exchange 
girl had lifted Jack out of the purgatory 
of waiting. 


25 


HIS BALTIMORE MADONNA. 

“Is that you, Evelyn?” 

“Yes. Who are you?” 

“Jack.” 

“Who?” 

“Why, Jack! J-a-c-k.” 

“Oh! Jack Say, Jack, don’t lecture 

me. I’m not coming home yet, no mat- 
ter what mother has said. My place is 
here. I found I was right when I got 
here. Poor Auntie!” 

“I’m not lecturing you. I adore you 
for it.” 

“You what?” 

“I adore you.” 

“Oh! I thought you were ’phoning for 
mamma.” 

“Nonsense, little girl. I’m coming to 
you on the first boat.” 

“Don’t do it, Jack. I don’t need you.” 

“But I need you, Evelyn.” 

“You need me?” 

“Yes, I want you to promise to marry 
me.” 

“Oh! Jack!” 

Pause. 

“Well, what’s the answer?” 

“The exchange girl’s listening.” 

“I don’t care.” 

“I can’t tell you this way.” 

“May I come and get your answer?” 

“Yes, come.” 

Jack had won his Baltimore Madonna. 


26 


Imprisoned 

She was young, she was romantic, she 
was whimsical. These qualities, com- 
bined with her undoubted good looks, 
made Margaret popular among the 
young men whom she called friends, but 
they likewise made her have odd fancies 
at odd times and do odd things that seri- 
ously annoyed and vexed her fond 
mother. 

She was walking up Charles street on 
this occasion with a young man from 
Virginia. He had met her a few months 
before in Richmond, and with the usual 
result. He was distinctively young, and 
so he had not waited long after her re- 
turn to Baltimore before he had ap- 
peared upon the scene, ready to mo- 
nopolize much of her time and to fall 
back upon any excuse to prolong his 
stay beneath the same skies where dwelt 
his lady love. She was young, too, it 
must be remembered, and she was not 
averse to encouraging the attentions of 
this boyish Virginian, though his sway 
over her extended no farther than the 
outer portals of the temple in which her 
heart was kept securely guarded. 

She glanced up at the lofty marble 
monument as they crossed Centre street 
from the St. James corner and entered 
Mount Vernon square. She had been 
living beneath the uplifted hand of this 
sculptured Washington all her life, but 
to her, as to every Baltimorean, there 


27 


IMPRISONED. 


was a charm in the noble way in which 
the Doric column stood out great and 
white against the cerulean hues be- 
hind. 

“What fun it would be to be shut up 
in that monument some night!” she sud- 
denly exclaimed. “The Prisoner of 
Zenda” and a host of stirring dungeon 
tales flashed across her mind, together 
with newspaper stories of the man who 
was locked up 12 hours in a bank vault, 
or of a Hungarian nobleman who had 
some years before slept over night in 
a pew of the old Cathedral a few blocks 
away. 

Her moods were his moods, and so he 
assented to the glorious novelty of the 
idea. “I didn’t know you could go up 
into the monument,” he said, with the 
ignorance of a soul which abided not in 
the home of terrapin and oysters. 

“Oh, yes,” she said, after she had 
shown him Cardinal Gibbons out for his 
afternoon walk with a portly clergyman, 
whose purple tie betokened that he, too, 
was of high church rank. “You pay an 
admission fee just inside that little door, 
and then there are 200 winding steps to 
climb to the top. The view is fine.” 

“Let’s go up,” he suggested. “It isn’t 
too late to see it. The sun hasn’t set.” 

She acquiesced, and together they 
passed between the open iron gates and 
up the pillared marble steps into the in- 
terior. A little man limped toward them 
and received from George the necessary 
fee. Then, after pointing the way to the 
winding stone stairway, he moved away 
with a hobble suggestive of rheuma- 
tism. 


28 


IMPRISONED. 


Their mount to the top took some min- 
utes. Occasional gas jets but dimly 
served to show them where to plant their 
feet, and their upward progress was 
slow. Margaret’s fresh laughter and 
George’s boyish voice rumbled echoingly 
up and down the stone interior with a 
hollowness that was repressive, until 
George, with the exuberance of youth 
and a talent of mimicry, which was one 
of his best points, recalled to his com- 
panion the adventures of Frank Daniels 
when supposed to be imprisoned in the 
pyramids in the last act of that melo- 
dious old opera, “The Wizard of the 
Nile.” “Am I a wiz?” he said, comically 
reminiscent. “I wish” came to them 
from above. “Gee whiz!” said the 
deeper but more irreverent echo from 
below. At least those were the inter- 
pretations which fanciful Margaret put 
upon the reiterant sounds. 

And so with laughter, and trifling, and 
jest, they at last came to the top and 
passed out into the open air upon the 
marble balcony that circles the cap of 
the column nearly 200 feet above ground. 
The pedestrians coming from downtown 
seemed like pigmies as they proceeded 
through the square past the Wallis stat- 
ue and the fountain. The skies were 
blue and the air had the crispness and 
exhilaration of an exquisite October day. 
In the West the sun was sinking in a 
mass of glowing tints. Its beams glis- 
tened like burnished gold in the thou- 
sands of windows offered to it from the 
houses and buildings of Northeast Bal- 
timore, and its immediate surroundings 
presented a gleaming background, against 


29 


IMPRISONED. 


which were outlined with distinctness 
the scores of tall church spires in the 
goodly northwestern section. Margaret 
pointed out the spots she knew in this 
city of her birth, showed him the blue 
harbor, with its shipping, its elevators, 
its two old forts; the City Hall and 
Postoffice and the skyscrapers that hid 
most of the burnt district; the gilt dome 
of the Cathedral; oft in the east the dull 
red group of Johns Hopkins Hospital 
buildings, and nearer at hand to the 
west the unaesthetic series of Univer- 
sity buildings. 

When the resources of her knowledge 
of local geography had been exhausted 
she repeated to him that pleasant fiction 
of the possibility of seeing the national 
capital from there on a clear day, and 
together they strained their vision into 
the southwest, while the huge statue 
above them smiled down at them, so it 
is believed, in a knowing way. One lit- 
tle gloved hand rested on the marble 
coping, and George laid his own upon it, 
half hesitatingly, as if afraid of meeting 
with the coy denials which had so often 
been his lot. But the feeling that they 
were alone together so far from the rest 
of mankind moved her heart to be kind, 
and she passively submitted. 

As she leaned over the coping and 
looked down into the west square the 
bronze Barye lion gazed up at her. Her 
fancy was at once in play. “Only imag- 
ine, George,” she said, turning to him; 
“that lion looks as malignant as though 
he had us imprisoned up here.” 

“What queer ideas you have,” he re- 
torted, with a laugh. “Didn’t you say it 


30 


IMPRISONED. 


would be glorious to be imprisoned in 
this tower?” 

“It would be, but what would the peo- 
ple at home say if, in reality, we were 
caught up here? Let’s go down at once,” 
drawing herself together as though half 
frightened at her own thoughts. “The 
sun has quite gone down.** 

She led the way into the interior, and 
they began to descend slowly the dark, 
winding stairway, feeling their way with 
their hands along the wall. Thirty or 
forty feet below the landing a gas jet 
had been well lit when they had passed 
up. Now it was flickering with but a 
blue flame, which went out as they 
neared it. Twenty or thirty feet below 
that there had been another. This one 
was out. 

“Maybe we really are shut in,” said 
Margaret, stopping to turn back to 
George. 

“Nonsense!” he said, reassuringly, as 
he put his arm about her. “Let’s hurry 
on.” 

In spite of his bold front, the idea had 
occurred to him that the man in charge 
of the monument was turning off the 
gas from below, unwilling on account 
of his rheumatism to climb the steps to 
the top and definitely ascertain whether 
they had gone. This opinion was con- 
firmed when he found no more illumina- 
tion below. In fear they tried to hasten 
down the spiral steps in the inky dark- 
ness, but could not. She became giddy 
with the curve of their descent and he 
excited at the prospect that they were 
to be locked in there for the night. 
Twice she stumbled and was only saved 


31 


IMPRISONED. 


from a disastrous fall by his arm. This 
increased their alarm. 

Their fears had only been too true. 
When they reached the bottom— it 
seemed an hour— black and dungeon-like 
everything was. The doors leading out 
into the air were evidently all closed, 
for not a ray of the fading daylight 
penetrated to where they stood. George 
felt in his pocket and was lucky enough 
to find half a dozen matches. One of 
these he lit. Their surroundings were 
“enough to give one the creeps,” as 
George afterward described it in his 
homely way. Walls once white, now 
dirty drab, stared at them on every side. 
A big plaster copy of Houdon’s Wash- 
ington looked like a majestic ghost in 
the light of the match. A pile of rub- 
bish in one corner suggested mice and 
rats, and similarly disagreeable things, 
while boxes and chests lying around 
promiscuously made Margaret think of 
a cemetery vault. She shuddered and 
as the match went out gave a little 
scream. George quickly renewed his 
precarious light. With this he ap- 
proached the keeper’s desk and was 
lucky enough to find thereon a candle- 
stick with a piece of candle in it. This, 
being lit, made their immediate sur- 
roundings a trifle less gruesome, but 
threw odd shadows upon the walls. 

“Sit down a moment somewhere,” said 
George, “I’ll try the doors.” 

“I’ll go with you,” replied Margaret, 
with a promptness evidently inspired by 
a dread of being left alone. So with her 
arm tucked into his and the candle in 
his disengaged hand, they made a cir- 


32 



IMPRISONED. 


-cult, trying the lock of the iron door in 
each of the four sides. Those on three 
sides were locked and bolted, but the 
fourth, the one on the east, was only 
bolted from the inside. 

“Now we’re all right!” cried George, 
gleefully, preparing to open the door, 
blow out the candle and make their exit. 

“You forget there is a high iron rail- 
ing,” said she, with what seemed almost 
a sob. “I can’t climb over that, and it 
isn’t likely that one of the gates is un- 
locked, too.” 

“I’ll find out if you’ll wait.” 

“Don’t leave me,” she said, clutching 
at his arm. 

“It will only be for a moment. People 
will think it queer if they see us both out 
there inside the railing.” 

“And you’ll come back just as quick 
as ever you can?” 

“Why, of course, little one,” he replied 
cheerfully. To him scaling the fence 
would have been child’s play, and, boy- 
like, he didn’t enter fully into the fears 
which consumed her. She shielded the 
candle from possible draughts, and he 
swung open the iron door and stepped 
out. In a few seconds he was back 
again. “Not one open,” was his report. 
“I shall have to climb over the fence 
and find a policeman or some one to un- 
lock a gate for you.” 

“I can’t stay here in this dungeon,” 
she cried. “Let me go outside.” 

“Not a bit of it,” he replied. “People 
are constantly passing on their way 
home from business or shopping, and if 
you were seen the story would be every- 
where in a twinkling. You stay inside. 


33 


IMPRISONED. 


I’ll be back in a jiffy. You know that. 
You know I’d give my life for you.” This 
was with an assumption of seriousness 
that made him seem years older than his 
boyish face had indicated. “I’m going to 
get you out of this scrape without hav- 
ing people talk about you.” 

“I believe you,” she said simply, with 
eyes glistening, touched more than she 
was willing to admit by his manner, and 
affected, as she felt, in the same fashion 
as those ladies of old for whom valiant 
champions fought to life or death in the 
armed joust. She gave him her hand. 
He bent over and kissed it, and then as 
he looked up the affection was so gen- 
uine that the kiss was repeated on her 
cheek, with no evidence of unwillingness 
to receive it. 

“Au revoir for a moment or two,” he 
said lightly, his heart swelling, and then 
with a final handclasp he had opened the 
door and was gone. A tumult of emo- 
tions possessed her, more than had ever 
stirred her before. Fear of being alone, 
excitement at the adventure, love for 
him, all heaved within her. She opened 
the door an inch or two, and peeped 
through the crack thus made, to see her 
new-found hero clambering- with agility 
over the iron railing and then disap- 
pearing rapidly across the asphalt to- 
ward Mount Vernon Church. 

To her the time before his return 
seemed hours. As a matter of fact, five 
minutes had gone by. But she was ter- 
rified beyond measure. Shadows danced 
fantasucally on the walls as the candle 
flickered, and she almost fancied that 
Washington leered at her from his ped- 
estal. This imagined act of flirtation on 




34 


IMPRISONED. 


the part of the staid Father of His Coun- 
try so unnerved her that she again opened 
the door with the idea of going out and 
crouching down on the steps behind one 
of the pillars in order to escape the no- 
tice of passers-by. But the twilight had 
not yet deepened into the darkness of 
night, and this hope was futile. The 
draught caused by the door being ajar 
caught the candle-light and nearly ex- 
tinguished it. She shut the door hur- 
riedly, and turned to the candle, af- 
frighted. She had no matches, and if it 
had gone out she would have been alone 
in those dark, almost cavernous, depths. 
Her uneasiness was by no means reas- 
sured when she saw that the candle had 
burned quite down to the socket. George 
was so awfully slow! Maybe he had been 
arrested for trespassing. Maybe he had 
found that the keeper lived in another 
part of town. 

As she meditated thus there came to 
her the sound of footsteps outside. They 
were welcome indeed, and the girl jumped 
hastily and threw open the door. George 
was coming to her and behind was a 
blue-coated policeman. She joyfully ex- 
tended her hand to the former, and, with 
an excess of gratitude born of her re- 
lief from nervous tension, she leaned 
over his shoulder to thank the officer. It 
was the policeman who patrolled the 
neighborhood of her home on Park ave- 
nue. “You have saved me from a very 
unpleasant affair, Mr. Dempsey,” she 
said to him, warmly, “and I shall never 
forget it.” 

“It was a very nasty little pickle you 
were in, Miss Margaret,” Dempsey re- 


35 


IMPRISONED. 


plied, “and I’m thankful I chanced to 
be provided with an extra key and can 
let you out.” 

“I trust you will not say anything 
about it to anyone at home,” pursued 
Margaret, “nor to anyone else.” 

“Of course not, Miss; I’m mum.” 

“Has any other person ever been in a 
like predicament?” asked George. 

“Only a young man some three or four 
years since. He climbed the fence, and 
then came to find me to bar the door.” 

“It’s very careless doings,” said George, 
with the wisdom of twice his age. 

“That it is, sir. But the old man’s 
rheumatism has been pretty bad. Now, 
you two just run along and I’ll fix this 
all right.” 

Two or three persons looked at them 
curiously as they passed around inside 
the railing to the north gate. George 
felt amply rewarded for his pains by a 
little squeeze of the hand which the 
girl gave him as he held the gate open 
for her. When she had stepped once 
more into freedom Margaret turned to 
look at the Barye lion. 

“It still thinks it has us treed,” she 
said to George, with a return of her for- 
mer mirth. 


36 


The Girl In Garnet. 


It was Christmas eve, and the big 
“Pennsy” train shed at Jersey City was 
more than full that afternoon as Law- 
rence Harding led the rush oft a Cort- 
landt-street ferry-boat and made his way 
to take the Congressional Limited for 
home. He had been away from home for 
a week, and there was a certain little 
girl on Preston street— but she doesn’t 
belong to this tale. 

The gate to Platform 5 was open, and 
two score of people were pushing to get 
through at once, nearly all laden with 
holiday gifts that added to the vexa- 
tions. Ahead of Lawrence in the crowd 
was a petite girl in a suit of garnet, 
with a hat of ermine and a “pillow” 
muff and scarf of the same fur. Above 
the neckpiece a few strands of blonde 
hair strayed. She seemed in the com- 
pany of an elderly couple, who, from 
their dress and appearance, were unmis- 
takably foreigners. They were provoked 
at the jostling and haste, and presently 
said something to the girl. But she was 
apparently more amused than otherwise, 
for Lawrence saw her shrug her shoul- 
ders and heard a low laugh. Just then a 
swarthy Italian, with an extra large 
bundle, jabbed her in the back with it, 
and she turned angrily. Her blue eyes 
flashed and her haughty manner would 
have cowed any one but an American 


37 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


“dago.” This particular one heeded not, 
his bundle was advanced with violence — 
that is, until Lawrence forcibly inter- 
fered. The Italian, when he had recov- 
ered, said something emphatic in Neapol- 
itan. The girl murmured “Thank you” 
in the way one hears it accented in Eng- 
land. Her eyes had lost their fire. She 
struck Lawrence as a rather pretty and 
vivacious girl, young and plainly “smart.” 

Their Pullman seats were for the same 
car as his; Lawrence noted that as they 
passed through the gate. And, as he 
paced the platform with a cigarette, for 
the minute before leaving time, he was 
already turning over schemes whereby 
he might again hear the girl say “Thank 
you” and perhaps some words more. It 
promised to be a not uninteresting 
journey. 

The girl’s elderly escort suddenly 
emerged from the car. He was perturbed. 
To the porter he said something in Ger- 
man. Lawrence remembered just enough 
of Professor Raddatz's teaching to know 
ft was an inquiry about baggage. The 
negro had never acquired the Kaiser’s 
language. He simply stared. Then, as 
the Teutonic gentleman repeated, he 
pointed toward the gate. It was a mere 
helpless guess, but it started his in- 
quirer, who hurried down the platform. 
He had hardly gone when the conductor 
called out “All aboard!” The porter took 
up the movable step and motioned to 
Lawrence to climb aboard. In the dis- 
tance the German reappeared. The wheels 
began to move, the portly gentleman 
broke into a run. The wheels moved 
faster, the portly gentleman tried to 


38 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


climb on the hindmost car, but the wide 
vestibule was closed. Lawrence’s last 
view of him was of a very irate and 
corpulent senior gesticulating and pour- 
ing out his woes to station masters who 
could not understand him. Secretly, 
Lawrence was overjoyed at the turn of 
events. 

Once inside the car he made his way 
directly to the girl. 

“I beg your pardon,” he said, as he re- 
spectfully removed his hat, “but your 
escort has been left behind.” 

The girl half rose in her seat. 

“You don't mean it?” she exclaimed. 
Then she told her woman companion In 
the next chair. 

There was excitement and consterna- 
tion in German, in which the older wo- 
man spoke of “Friedrich” and the 
younger one of “Baron.” Lawrence told 
what he had just seen. 

“What shall we do?” asked the girl in 
perturbation. 

Lawrence explained that there was a 
slower express just behind. After some 
further colloquy the older woman ac- 
cepted the situation with more resig- 
nation, and settled back comfortably in 
her seat. For the second time Lawrence 
was thanked, this time with increased 
volubility. Then it seemed to him best 
to seek his own seat. 

He had a bundle of afternoon Gotham 
dailies, but with his head full of the girl 
he glanced at them only perfunctorily. 
They were more than ordinarily unin- 
teresting, and after a few minutes he 
frankly laid them by and gazed across 
the aisle at the slip of an English girl. 


39 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


who had a magazine in her lap and was^ 
gazing out at the Jersey flats. The 
duenna appeared to he nodding. Pres- 
ently she dozed. Then she slumbered. 

The conductor came in at the forward 
end. “All tickets, please,” he called. The 
girl turned in a startled way to Law- 
rence across the aisle. It was the third 
time his help was welcome. 

“You seem to be our good angel,” she 
said, as he stepped over to her. “The fact 

is, ” she continued, with an embarrassed 
laugh, “the Baron— the gentleman— has 
our tickets.” 

Lawrence happened to be recognized 
by the conductor. He explained the 
predicament with earnestness and flu- 
ency. 

“It’s against the company’s rules,” 
said the conductor, doubtfully. The girl 
was looking at him in pretty distress, 
and the “Captain” was only a man. “But 
I guess,” he added, reassuringly, “that 
I can wire the train behind and have 
the tickets held for me.” 

Lawrence slipped into the Baron’s va- 
cant chair, and they talked quietly so 
as not to disturb the dragon, who had 
slept through the whole of this last 
scene. The girl’s hair grew golden in 
the declining December sun. She con- 
fessed to him what he already suspect- 
ed— that it was her first experience on an 
American railway. She praised the 
smoothness of the swift ride and the 
luxury of the “carriage,” as she called' 

it. But she complained that it was over- 
heated. 

“I was told that you always keep your 
houses like ovens in America,” she said,. 


40 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


with an animation which captivated 
Lawrence, “but I did not know about 
your carriages.” 

Lawrence suggested a visit to the ob- 
servation end. The girl frankly avowed 
her ignorance of what he meant. Law- 
rence explained. She glanced at her 
companion. “She’s equal to an hour 
yet,” she remarked mischievously. And 
the young couple stole away. 

There was no one on the rear platform. 
The girl voted it most enchanting. Law- 
rence wrapped her up snugly, after she 
had dropped down into a camp stool. His 
fingers touched the back of her hand, 
and the girl seemed to share the thrill 
that passed through him. They watched 
the receding tracks; they heard the 
trucks clatter over switches galore; they 
saw towns come and get left behind; 
Lawrence showed her Princeton on the 
hills to one side, and the girl told him of 
her younger brother, who was at Eton. 
She told him, too, something of herself, 
of her home in a quiet corner in Ger- 
many, of her school days in England, of 
theatres in London and Berlin. It was 
like a delightful hour with an American 
maid, only different. And the difference 
put a keen edge to Lawrence’s enjoy- 
ment, already incited by the circum- 
stances of their acquaintance and the 
knowledge that the hour was stolen. He 
tactfully displayed no curiosity as to the 
girl’s identity. The only crumb of infor- 
mation that fell from her lips was that 
she had been sent to America with her 
two companions as a variation from the 
ordinary “finishing tour.” Lawrence in- 
ferred that she must be a daughter of 
wealth, possibly of title, though the 


41 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


democratic way in which the party was 
traveling hardly carried out these opin- 
ions. 

It had grown dark when the Limited 
shot across the Delaware bridge, and re- 
luctantly they started back to their 
chairs. In the narrow vestibule the girl 
suddenly asked whether they could get 
a hamper of food put aboard when the 
train made a stop. “Therein,” said Law- 
rence, banteringly, “is another of our 
boasted American superiorities. Dinner 
is cooked and served on the train.” The 
girl, in her ignorance, doubted him. As 
if emphatically to prove Lawrence a 
truth-teller, an ebony annunciator in 
white raiment passed them. “First call 
for dinner in the dining-car forward,” he 
bawled into their ears. The girl laughed 
gaily. Then she vowed she was curious 
and would like to see it all. Her enthusi- 
asm was schoolgirlish. A maid a couple 
of summers older would probably have 
pretended to a complete acquaintance 
with dinners on trains and have carried 
it off with aplomb. 

“Listen,” said Lawrence, hurriedly, de- 
taining her a moment more. “Would- 
you?— do you think we could? Just we 
two?” 

“Could what?” said Miss English. 

“Why, take dinner with me. It will be 
so jolly, so ‘larky,’ as you say in Lon- 
don.” 

“I’d like to,” answered the girl, draw- 
ing down her eyebrows, “but the Bar 

my aunt may be awake.” 

She needed but little to persuade her. 
Of that George was sure. 

“Let us see whether Auntie is still 


42 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


asleep.’' 

The two, like children, peeped round 
the corner of the passageway into their 
car. 

Auntie was still slumbering. 

“Come on,” said Lawrence. 

Together they passed up that car, tip- 
toed past the dragon and into the “diner.” 
The girl gave a little exclamation of 
pleased surprise as she entered the car 
ahead. Lawrence had never seen the place 
look more pretty. The red-shaded candle 
lights shed a glow upon the spotlessly 
covered little tables at the windows and 
sprigs of red-berried holly reminded all 
that it was Yuletide. Two couples were 
seated, a brace of waiters moved up the 
aisle, and in the far end the cook could 
be seen in his narrow kitchen, silhouetted 
in the red gleam of his hot fire. 

The girl steadily found new causes for 
enthusiasm during the hour they sat 
there. The rumbling of the wheels under 
their dining-room, the swaying of the 
car as a curve was rounded near Torres- 
dale, the excitement of watching, in vain, 
to see a glass of water spill; the cook in 
his wonderful and compact headquar- 
ters— all this and 50 more things grown 
commonplace to Lawrence were novelties 
to her and afforded food for their light 
and merry talk. 

The menu was unusually good. It was, 
in fact, a holiday dinner, with turkey 
and cranberry sauce in the place of 
honor. Some of the American dishes and 
customs appealed to the girl; some did 
not. She scolded Lawrence for the Yan- 
kee habit of gulping ice water, even in 
mid- winter; she thought the Chesapeake 


43 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


bay oysters heavenly; she preferred Eng- 
lish sole to the fish that was served; she 
enjoyed the turkey and the Cape Cod 
berries; she toyed with the Roman punch 
and vowed it was delicious and she 
would like to take more of it, only it 
was strong. Her animation was so whole- 
hearted and girlish that a couple at a 
table across, attracted at first by her ac- 
cent, suspended their own chatter to 
enjoy her vivacity. 

They had run into Philadelphia, had 
stopped and gone on again a score of 
miles when the girl grew conscience- 
stricken at having forgotten her com- 
panion. 

“I hope she has not awaked,” she said. 
“I deserve to be scolded by her, for, after 
all, I am violating every canon of eti- 
quette and good behavior by this tete- 
a-tete. I must go back to her at once.” 

“Don’t blame me, please,” pleaded 
Lawrence. 

“How could I,” was the repiy, “when 
you have been so good and thoughtful? 
I shall never forget my first American 
railway journey. It has been such an 
enjoyment.” 

Her eyes became wistful. She was si- 
lent for a moment. Then she spoke hes- 
itatingly: 

“If you only knew how it was to es- 
cape for an hour from the rigid confine- 
ment, the incessant parade, the stifling 

of one’s feelings” She stopped. 

“Come,” she said, rising, “let us go.” 

Lawrence suggested a dinner for the 
old lady. The girl was again grateful 
for his thoughtfulness, but concluded her 
companion would prefer a light lunch. A 


44 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


conference with the waiter, the sugges- 
tion of a sufficient pourboire from Law- 
rence, and a dainty supply of turkey 
sandwiches and olives and a pot of tea 
was arranged. 

The duenna was awake and frowned 
forbiddingly when she saw Lawrence 
with the girl. The latter seemed a bit 
nervous, but carried off the embarrass- 
ment with hauteur. Lawrence could not 
understand what she said in German, 
but there was a certain subservience to 
be noted in the old lady’s manner, and 
she presently seemed to acquiesce in the 
girl’s explanations. *'I told her how kind 
you had been,” interpreted the latter to 
Lawrence. Then he was duly introduced 
and sat in the chair of him who had 
missed the train. Lawrence felt it would 
not have been such plain sailing with the 
fussy gentleman on guard. 

A triangular conversation ensued, in 
which the girl was the receiving end for 
the other two. She was in high spirits as 
she talked to each in turn. Then the 
luncheon came and the old lady’s cap- 
ture was complete when she learned that 
Herr Harding had provided it for her. 
Lawrence thought it a wise move to ef- 
face himself for half an hour. In the 
smoking compartment every puff spread 
a halo around a brain picture of the girl. 
Lawrence was even almost angry at the 
interruption when the conductor dropped 
in to tell him that he had received word 
that the Baron was on the train behind, 
and that he was protected as to the 
tickets. 

The train was crossing Gunpowder river 
bridge when the Baltimorean returned 


45 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


to the two women. The girl was peering 
out into the darkness. 

“What queer, broad streams you have 
here!” she said, when she had welcomed 
him with a smile. 

“The haunt of the canvas-bacK duck,” 
was Lawrence’s reply, and he went on 
to tell them of the duck, the oyster and 
the terrapin, those prides of Maryland. 

“And this is Maryland?” asked the 
girl, rather dreamily. 

“My Maryland,” answered Lawrence, 
simply. 

The lights of Baltimore were on the 
left when Lawrence summoned up cour- 
age to ask what had been on his mind 
for some time. Might he not go on to 
Washington with them? “It would be a 
kindness to us,” said the girl, tactfully. 
“You have been such a fine cavalier.” 
A glance from her blue eyes made Law- 
rence’s nerves tingle down to the tips of 
his toes. 

The last hour geemed over far too 
soon. The girl led him on to talk of Bal- 
timore, of his home, of himself. Some of 
it was translated for the third party, 
but for the most part the old lady was 
content to doze and let them gossip. 

As the capital was neared Lawrence 
felt an almost imperceptible change in 
the girl’s manner. It was not that she 
was any less cordial or any less evi- 
dently grateful for his courtesies. But 
there was a preoccupancy, a lapse now 
and then which betokened — so he 
thought— that she was turning some- 
thing over in her mind. What it was she 
did not impart. 

When he helped the two ladies from the 


46 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


car in the depot two men approached, 
but seemed rather puzzled at finding 
Lawrence with them. One, a tall, blond 
chap, unmistakably British, wore a mili- 
tary overcoat. The other carried an 
opera hat in his hand and was plainly 
in evening attire beneath his outer gar- 
ment. They bowed impressively. 

“We are from the Embassy, Your 
Highness,” said one of them. 

Lawrence was astounded. Here he had 
for hours been talking with a royal lady 
in woeful ignorance of her rank. He saw 
it all now. She was manifestly the 
Princess Adelaide Mary of Schwarzfusen- 
Knyphausen, a granddaughter of Queen 
Victoria, of whose unexpected arrival in 
America the New York papers had made 
so much that morning. She was looking 
at him now with a strained expression, 
waiting in uncertainty to see how he 
was taking the revelation. For the life 
of him he could say nothing. The girl 
finally relieved the embarrassing silence 
by saying to the Embassy men: 

“The Baron unexpectedly missed our 
train, and this American gentleman, Mr. 
Harding, has been most kind to us.” 

The men shook hands with him. Now 
that they understood his presence they 
were cordial. 

Lawrence went with them as far as 
their carriage. The Baroness got in; the 
Princess hesitated. The two Britishers 
thoughtfully moved a couple of paces 
away. The Princess looked at Lawrence 
searchingly in the shadow of the arc 
light. 

“I hope you forgive me my deception,” 
she said, it seemed to him humbly. 


47 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


“I do, I do,” he vowed, earnestly. 

“And try to forget this prank of a 
hoyden Princess,” she continued. 

“I shall never forget it,” declared Law- 
rence, earnestly. 

The girl held out her little gloved hand. 
Lawrence took it. The handclasp was de- 
cided on the part of both. To Lawrence 
for the moment she was no princess; 
only again a fine little girl. His eyes 
moistened suspiciously as she drove off. 

The ride back to Baltimore was a 
weird, confused nightmare to Lawrence. 
His brain was in a whirl with the sur- 
prising denouement to his journey, and 
his mental review of the five hours was 
only interrupted to devour every morsel 
of gossip about the Princess reprinted in 
The News from the metropolitan papers. 
Some of the misstatements were laugh- 
able; some directly at variance with each 
other. One “yellow” said she had been 
hurriedly sent to America to escape the 
importunities of an objectionable suitor. 
Another sheet declared that her up-to- 
date father thought it would improve her 
to travel democratically in the Great 
Democracy. To Lawrence this explained 
the plain manner in which the party 
traveled. 

The morning after Christmas there was 
a square envelope and a package on his 
desk when he entered his office, in the 
Equitable Building. He opened the lat- 
ter first. It was a dainty match case of 
gilt. On it was a monogram— not his ini- 
tials, but those of the Princess, “A. M.” 
Tied to it was her card, on which she 
had written: 

Christmas Eve, 1905; Congressional Limited. 


48 


THE GIRL IN GARNET. 


The square envelope contained an Invi- 
tation to a ball at the British Embassy 
in honor of Her Serene Highness. Law- 
rence went over, of course; but it gave 
him a pang to find how the girl was 
hedged about and shut in by conventions 
and formulas of precedence. She gave 
him his second hand-squeeze when he ap- 
proached her in the receiving line, and 
later, when he stood his ground in a 
group of attentive attaches and resplend- 
ent uniformed young officers, her eyes 
danced with mirth as she told him she 
had kept a waltz for him. But in the 
dance she was distrait and preoccupied. 
An evident tear hung upon her lashes. 

“What is it, Your Highness?” he asked 
her. 

“Don’t call me that,” she commanded. 
“You gave me no title in the dining-car. 

“To me then,” he whispered fervidly, 
“you wei;e only 'little girl.’ ” 

“I wish,” she said tremulously, “I wish 
with all my heart I was just an Ameri- 
can girl.” 

“I understand, little one,” he said. 

Their dance had ended. 


49 


His Little Nest For Two, 


The months after Mary Milbank had 
agreed to accept him were queer ones 
for Harry Tayloe. Sound, practical and 
unemotional under ordinary circum- 
stances, he had become transformed by 
the love that had been born in him when 
he had met Mary one pleasant after- 
noon at the Baltimore Yacht Club. The 
doubts and tragic worries that had beset 
him in the months of wooing— the fears 
that he was foolish to seek the daugh- 
ter of a man of reputed wealth— had 
given way to an exalted idealistic state 
when she had said “Yes.” Presently his 
common sense began to reassert itself, 
and though Mary still wore a halo and 
Harry trod on air, he began to think of 
the little nest in which they would mate 
when married. He had saved a few thou- 
sands during his promotions in the Bal- 
timore and Ohio Central Building, and 
it presently became his purpose to use 
this, with possibly a borrowed adden- 
dum, in the purchase and outfitting of 
a new home. 

And then there came another idea. 
Why not keep the home a secret from 
Mary until they had been married, had 
honeymooned and come home again to 
Baltimore? It seemed to him that this 
would be simply delicious. He could pic- 
ture the glad surprise she would have, 
and mentally he enjoyed in anticipation 


50 


HIS LITTLE NEST FOR TWO. 

her well-remembered ejaculations of 
pleasure and delight as, personally con- 
ducted by him, she would be introduced 
to each room, each nook, each corner. 
Even the coal bins would have a note of 
satisfaction in them, for would they 
not be hers and his? 

The real estate columns in The News 
acquired a new reader from that day. 
Harry pored over the advertisements, 
and, sparing as many hours as he could 
from his office duties, he set out single- 
handed to learn how little he knew about 
dwelling property. He absorbed several 
other bits of knowledge along with this 
recognition of his utter ignorance. He 
learned that real estate agents are a 
persistent tribe— all with tongues worn 
smooth and all wearing rose-colored 
spectacles. He advanced amazingly in 
knowledge of the geography of his na- 
tive city. The respective merits of gas 
versus electricity, of hot air versus hot 
water, of hot water versus steam, of 
basement kitchen versus first-floor kitch- 
en, were fully pounded into his head from 
both sides. He knew when a bathtub 
was porcelain and when it was only iron 
with a porcelain veneer. And such a va- 
riety of wall papers had been introduced 
to his notice by the time he finished his 
two hundredth dwelling that to his tired 
brain it seemed that Hades must be a 
garden in which wall-paper flowers 
reached their limit of luxuriant growth. 

Just as he had about decided that a 
three-story swell-front of yellow Pom- 
peiian brick on Mount Royal avenue was 
the best nest for Mary, it occurred to 
him to draw Mary out skilfully and get 


51 


HIS LITTLE NEST FOR TWO. 


her views without uncovering 1 his pur- 
pose. 

The result was a shock. 

Mary liked the suburbs. 

She thought it was just lovely to have 
one of those picturesque cottages with 
green lawns on all sides and opportuni- 
ties for tennis and croquet. No pent-up 
walls of Pompeiian brick for Mary. A 
cottage in the suburbs was a home. 

Harry revised his ideas. 

He spent six weeks in touring suburbs 
by steam and trolley. He roamed through 
Catonsville, Windsor Heights, Forest 
Park, Walbrook, Sudbrook, West Arling- 
ton, Buxton, Mount Washington, Roland 
Park, Normandie Heights, Govans and 
places with fancy names, plowed thor- 
oughfares, street signs and no cottages. 
Trolley and train conductors regarded 
him as going mad until they learned his 
mission. Then they looked at him pity- 
ingly and let him talk to them. And 
Harry was just wild to talk to some one 
and to ask questions. He was bursting 
with information, but he yearned for 
more. Twice he got what he thought 
would just suit Mary and himself, but 
both times the cup was rudely dashed 
from his lips. Once a calmly critical 
friend had reminded him that the cot- 
tage about to be selected was so remote- 
ly situated that he would have to get up 
at 5.30 and walk a half mile to a train 
in order to be at his office at the ac- 
cepted hour. Harry had ridden to this 
spot from town in the carriage of a par- 
ticularly winning agent. He winced 
when a different point of view was pre- 
sented. That cottage was tossed off his 


62 


HIS LITTLE NEST FOR TWO. 


mind. The other was a perfect beauty, 
and Harry was for rushing the next 
morning to sign the deeds. But some one 
told him a harrowing tale of typhoid and 
lack of sewerage, and he abandoned it, 
too. A few weeks later an acquaintance 
bought it, and up to date, as Harry can 
swear, no one has had typhoid there. 
Harry thinks it looks severely healthy. 

At last there was a Walbrook villa 
that escaped the darts of objectors. It 
was small and trim-looking; it seemed 
well-planned inside, the rooms were sun- 
ny and cheerful and there was lawn 
enough for tennis. It met Mary’s ideas, 
as learned by pumping. It was 30 min- 
utes to Harry’s office by either line of 
cars. The agent said the steam heat in- 
stalled was more than sufficient to bat- 
tle with winter’s winds. A doctor said 
he saw no reason why there should be 
typhoid. Harry bought it. 

The next few weeks were spent in fur- 
nishing the nest. Harry was practical 
enough to know that Mary would change 
much of it when she was installed, and 
that she would add a thousand home- 
like touches. But he went ahead and 
bought furniture of the kind he liked 
and thought she did. There were not so 
many furniture stores in Baltimore as 
there were real estate agents, and Harry 
got along better. He also repapered 
some rooms by his own unaided ideas. 

Their wedding had been fixed for June. 
In May, Harry, rabidly eager to tell 
Mary all about it, finally decided not to 
wait until the time when they were ac- 
tually to live in it. A Sunday afternoon, 
the third in May, was selected to spring 
the great surprise. A couple of Mary’s 


53 


HIS LITTLE NEST FOR TWO. 


girl friends, Harry’s mother and sister 
and “Jimmy” Brett, who was to be the 
best man, were all let into the secret, 
and arrangements made for them to be 
at the Walbrook nest ahead of the hour 
when Harry would bring Mary there. 
Harry had got a promise from Mary 
that she would go with him that after- 
noon to make a call upon some friends 
in Walbrook whom he wished her to 
meet before their marriage. He was the 
gayest of mortals as he called at her 
Maryland-avenue home and for the thou- 
sandth time pictured her joyful surprise. 
He knew very well she would be over- 
come and turn to him and say “Oh! Har- 
ry” in a tearful voice. 

They got off the North-avenue car at 
the corner below the nest, and Harry 
led the way along the sidewalk and then 
up the path to his cottage. His sister’s 
face, beaming with fun, peeped out from 
a window. Brett could be seen back in 
the room. Mary had asked a lot of ques- 
tions about these friends on whom they 
were to call, and had got fanciful an- 
swers. On the porch, instead of pushing 
the button, Harry turned the knob and 
opened the door. Inside his friends and 
her friends came forward in a laughing 
group. Harry looked at Mary, and her 
expression froze on his lips the words he 
was about to utter. His joyous castle in 
the air was smashed. Mary had divined 
the meaning of it all, and on her face a 
variety of emotions— none of them pleas- 
ing— struggled for mastery. 

She turned to Harry. 

“Did you buy this house for me?” she 
asked. 


54 


HIS LITTLE NEST FOR TWO. 


Harry nodded. Something in his throat 
prevented him from speaking. He want- 
ed to put up his hands to his face and 
sob aloud in his bitter disappointment. 

“Oh! I’m so sorry,” said Mary, falter- 
ingly. 

“Why, you ought to be glad,” said one 
of the girls back in the hallway. 

“I know— I know But papa has 

bought a house for us.” 

“A house for you two?” asked Harry’s 
mother. 

“Yes. At Roland Park.” 

“At Roland Park?” repeated Harry, as 
if he had not yet realized. 

“Yes, at Roland Park, near the Coun- 
try Club.” 

It seems ridiculous, but the one thing 
that popped into Harry’s mind and 
•stayed there was tennis. 

“It’s too hilly for tennis there,” he 
said. 

“Tennis!” said Mary, with fine scorn. 
“What do I care for that when the Club 
grounds and the Club are so near?” 

Mary was not a member, and she had 
been at the Club on invitation just about 
three times since Harry had known her. 
Her statement started anger brewing in 
him. 

“I do not care for club life,” he said. 
“I prefer a home. This suits me.” 

“But surely,” said Mary, opening her 
big eyes wider, “you don’t prefer this 
to papa’s gift? It’s a fine cottage— so 
smart-looking and with a stable.” 

“We’ll have to go horseless,” was ±iar- 
ry’s grim comment. 

“I wouldn’t live in this place, anyhow,” 
said Mary, recklessly, her own gorge ris- 


55 


HIS LITTLE NEST FOR TWO. 

ing. “I hate Walbrook. It’s so far from 
everybody.” 

“It’s nearer to town than Boland 
Bark.” 

‘‘There’s such an uninteresting ride.” 

‘‘I don’t think the scenery of Hampden 
booms the Roland Park cars,” said Har- 
ry, caustically. 

‘‘But you don’t have to transfer.” 

‘‘You won’t in Walbrook if you take 
the Edmondson-avenue line.” 

‘‘And ride past odorific garbage dumps! 
No, thank you; not for me.” 

Harry made a renewed effort for 
peace. 

‘‘Won’t you look at the furniture and 
papering, Mary, dear? I selected them 
just for you— for our own little home.’* 
He gulped down a sob. 

‘‘There’s no use. I don’t like this 
house, nor anything in it. If you picked 
this wall paper it’s a nightmare.” 

Harry had picked it. He thought it 
very fine. 

‘‘Do you mean to say, Mary,” he asked, 
drawing a step nearer, ‘‘that you won’t 
do as I wish and make this our home?” 

‘‘Do you mean to say, Harry Tayloe,” 
retorted the girl, as she faced him with 
flashing eyes, ‘‘that you will not do as I 
say and accept father’s gift? I think it 
perfectly splendid in him.” 

“I’m not denying his kindness,” he 
said, “but you don’t know how much 
this means to me. I’ve planned so long 
and had so many happy hours” 

“You ought to have told me. I was 
after father.” 

“Then you won’t come here and live?” 


56 


HIS LITTLE NEST FOR TWO. 


“No.” 

“Not for my sake?” 

“I tell you no. I hate Walbrook.” 

Harry’s pallor was ghastly. 

“Very well,” he said, quietly, “you 
need not live here.” 

He turned to the others who had looked 
on in silence at what they knew to be a 
crisis. To Brett he said: “Jimmy, will 
you take Mary home?” 

Mary seemed amazed. 

“You don’t mean, Harry” she be- 

gan. 

“I know just what I am doing,” he 
replied. “There could be no happiness 
for us when you have shown so clearly 
that you give no thought to my desires, 
and when you have society cravings too 
limitless for me to humor.” 

The girl’s eyes filled. But she held her 
head back as she turned on the doorsill. 

“Very well,” she said. “Come, Mr. 
Brett.” And so she passed out of Har- 
ry’s house and Harry’s lif6. 

The others slipped away, all save Har- 
ry’s mother, who put her arms about 
her son’s neck without a word between 
them. 


The News that week had three para- 
graphs that may be quoted. One was a 
notice in the society personals: 

Mr. and Mrs. Valentine Milbank an- 
nounce that the engagement of tnoir 
daughter, Miss Mary Worthington Mil- 
bank, to Mr. Harry Sylvester Tayloe, re- 
cently published, is ended by mutual 
consent. 

The other two items were side by side 


57 


HIS LITTLE NEST FOE TWO. 


in the real estate advertisements. They 
read: 


FOR SALE — A handsome, modern cottage, in 
the best section of Walbrook; partly fur- 
nished; newly papered; every up-to-date idea; 
owner leaving city. 1018 Equitable Building. 


FOR SALE — An unusual opportunity to those 
desiring a fine residence in the new section 
of Roland Park; a bargain at $10,000. Apply 
at the office of the Roland Park Company. 


58 


The Womans Soul Had Changed ♦ 

The Academy had been crowded that 
New Year’s Eve night. Society had seen 
Bernhardt as the sorceress the evening 
before and were now caught on the re- 
bound by the Teutonic hilarity of the 
Rogers Brothers. The crush in the wide 
foyer at the end of the farce was un- 
usual. Outside the big mulatto attend- 
ant could be heard calling vehicle num- 
bers through his megaphone, but the 
occasional departure of a carriage load 
afforded no apparent relief inside to the 
chattering crowd of men and women in 
showy evening attire. Literally it was a 
standstill. 

At the top of the five marble steps on 
the inner end of the foyer a girl and a 
man were next to each other. The man 
had no companion; the girl seemed to 
have been edged away from her friends. 
She was so close that a loose end of her 
pale blue scarf contributed a dash of 
brilliancy to the sombre black of his 
overcoat sleeve. The air was tinged 
with a subtle perfume of fragrant violet 
that betokened to the man the dainty 
femininity of his neighbor. 

A restless one behind, eager to get into 
the open, pressed impetuously on those 
about him and inaugurated a swaying 
of the crowd, which surged outward. 
The girl, caught unawares, might have 
toppled forward upon those on the lower 
steps, but the man aided her with a re- 


59 


THE WOMAN’S SOUL HAD CHANGED. 


straining hand laid lightly on her arm. 

“Thank you,” she said. Her voice de- 
noted culture and was vibrant in its alto 
tones. 

They turned to look at each other for 
the first time. She saw a clean-appear- 
ing chap with a countenance indicative 
of animation and a suspicion of a smile 
that meant a capacity for humor. He 
saw a young woman who was fully as 
tall as himself, and whose erect bearing 
could not be hidden by the white fleecy 
cloak of broadtail fur which hung from 
her shoulders. She suggested queens to 
him, and she suggested, too, able-bodied, 
young American womanhood of the kind 
that golfs, swims, motors and gathers 
vitality by a dozen out-of-door methods. 
The color of health was in her cheeks, 
and added no little to the beauty of her 
face, the distinguishing characteristic 
of which was, however, long dark eye- 
lashes and expressive dark orbs behind 
them. 

The two pairs of eyes met, and, meet- 
ing, held each other firm. 

It seemed to both that instantly they 
were transported to another world, an- 
other environment, far from the frivol- 
ous throng that had just ended its 
shrieks of laughter at the buffoonery of 
the German comedians. The girl felt 
that through the man’s clear blue eyes 
she could look into a period when they 
had known each other well indeed. A 
curious exaltation seized hold of her, an 
electric thrill that made her oblivious of 
all others around them. The man, sim- 
ilarly magnetized, was reminded by his 
dominating sensations of a day in the 
Cathedral, when the odor of incense 


60 


THE WOMAN’S SOUL HAD CHANGED. 


from the altar had become suddenly 
overpowering to him. Both gazed and 
gazed; both felt impotent to withdraw 
their eyes— had they wished. 

The man was the first to return to 
things mundane. A little opening had 
been made in front of them. 

“Step down,” he said to the girl. 

“There is room for you,” was her re- 
ply. 

They stepped together. Their eyes still 
sought each other. 

STEP I.— RE-ACQUAINTANCE. 

She— “I am sure I knew you long ago.” 

He (quoting)— 

“Have I met you, and passed you already, 
Unknowing, unthinking and blind?” 

She— “It is intuition, not memory. It 
was not in this age or time. It seems 
centuries ago.” 

He— “I, too, share that feeling. It 
could not have been when we were chil- 
dren, could it?” 

She (dreamily)— “No, no, that is not it. 
It was— it was when I was not what I 
am— when both were different.” 

He— “And I seem to know you well.” 

She (flushing slightly)— “Well, and most 
well.” 

He (suggestively)— “Do you believe in 
theosophy?” 

She— “You mean that perhaps we met 
when both our astral bodies were pro- 
jected into space? No, it is not that, 
either. To me the philosophy of old 
Pythagoras seems to explain the mir- 
acle.” 

He— “You think then our souls once 
dwelt in bodies that were not those in 


61 


THE WOMAN’S SOUL HAD CHANGED. 

which they now abide, and that in that 
time we were known to each other?” 

She (eagerly)— “Yes, I feel that strong- 
ly. This is a reunion, not a first ac- 
quaintance. Of that I am sure. And 
yet I cannot tell you why I believe so.” 

He— ‘‘I have always scoffed at that old 
doctrine of metempsychosis. But when 
you looked into my eyes a moment ago 
it came to me irresistibly that we be- 
longed to each other in days gone by.” 

She (confusedly)— “That’s just it.” 

He (quickly)— “That we belonged to 
each other?” 

She (with more embarrassment)— “Yes; 
that is, that we were lovers then.” 

He (doubtfully)— “I share that odd 
feeling, or fancy, or trick of the soul, 
with you; but I do not seem to have re- 
awakened the echoes of the past so suc- 
cessfully. I feel that we knew each 
other in the long ago, but that is all. 
The rest is blank.” 

She (with sprightliness) — “Perhaps, be- 
ing a woman, my intuition is more God- 
given than yours.” 

He— “I can only say that I accept 
gladly what you bring back from the 
dim past.” 

She (flushing again)— “Men make the 
same speeches now as then.” 

He— “And women will, a million years 
hence.” 

She— “I wish I could see more clearly. 
It is all so nebulous and confused around 
the figures of you and me. I cannot tell 
whether I was Lady Jane in the castle 
or Milkmaid Joan in the dairy, or 
whether you were Sir Tristram or just 
honest Giles.” 


62 


THE WOMAN’S SOUL HAD CHANGED. 


He— “Perhaps I was a singing trouba- 
dour, you a lady of Provence.” 

She— “Or you a valiant crusader go- 
ing forth to conquer the Holy City and 
leaving me behind to weep at your ab- 
sence.” 

He— “Or another Dante and Beatrice.” 

She— “Possibly even the true Dante 
and Beatrice. Who can tell, if we can- 
not?” 

He — “At any rate, Lady Unknown 
Now, no matter when or where, no mat- 
ter how or why, we were lovers then.” 

She— “Yes— then. Emphasize the then, 
please.” 

He— “There is an opening. Step down.” 

She— “There is room for you.” 

They stepped together. 


STEP II.— PARTNERS IN INFINITY. 

She— “It seems wonderful that we 
should meet again in this way. Two 
tiny souls among a thousand thousand 
millions!” 

He— “Silly folk say the world is small. 
How foolish! The world is infinite. It is 
we who are small.” 

She— “You quoted Kipling just now. 
Do you remember that thought of his— 

‘Twelve hundred million men are spread 
About this earth, and I and you 
Wonder “When you and I are dead 

What will those luckless millions do” ' V* 

He— “I think Kipling glorious, don’t 
you?” 

She— Yes; but the pre-eminent poet and 
philosopher for me is the old Persian.” 

He— “I, too, am fond of Omar Khay- 
yam.” 


63 


THE WOMAN’S SOUL HAD CHANGED. 

She— “I have the dearest little edition 
of the Rubaiyat on a night table be- 
side my bed. The same lesson of hu- 
mility for the individual soul that rings 
through that Kipling couplet is to me 
expressed with more appealing force 
when the Tentmaker says: 

‘The world will turn when we are earth 
As though we had not come or gone — 
There was no lack before our birth, 

When we are gone there will be none/ *' 

He— “I like better the lines in which 
he compares us to chess pawns: 

‘Helpless pieces of the game He plays 
Upon the checker board of nights and days; 
Hither and thither moves and checks and slays 
And one by one back in the closet lays/ ” 

She (moodily)— “There are times I am 
made desolate with thinking on my own 
puny contribution to life.” 

He (quoting again)— 

“Ah, Love! could you and I with Him con- 
spire 

To grasp this sorry scheme of things entire. 
Would we not shatter it to bits — and then 
Remold it nearer to the heart’s desire?” 

She— “If we could, if we could.” 

He— “There is an opening. Step down/' 
She — “There is room for you.” 

They stepped together. 


STEP III.— CONFIDENCES. 

He— “We have talked of infinity and of 
the past. But what of ourselves?” 

She— “I have little that is worth tell- 
ing.” 

He— “Old friends are privileged to ex- 
change confidences when they meet after 
years. Why not we?” 

She— “What would you know?” 


64 


THE WOMAN’S SOUL HAD CHANGED. 

He— “I would learn of you, of your life 
in this present terrestrial existence.” 

She— ‘‘I suppose I am much the same 
as any immortal soul ‘cribbed, cabined 
and confined’ to a monotonous earthly 
round. I read a lot and dream more. I 
think noble things and never do them. 
I plan to help others and then find my- 
self making the social round for my own 
pleasure. I have education, but profit 
not by it. Still, with it all, I would not 
want you to think me wholly frivolous. 
Give me credit for the things I dream 
and never achieve.” 

He— ‘‘And yet when we meet, after cen- 
turies have swelled the sum, I find you 
at one of the most frivolous of shows.” 

She (mockingly)— ‘‘Ah, sir, that is a 
confidence I had better not share with 
you.” 

He— ‘‘You would not be so cruel?” 

She — ‘‘What woman can be cruel to a 
bygone flame? Suppose, Sir Dante, or 
Sir Tristram, that I tell you that in this 
present existence I have an aunt who is 
a matchmaker!” 

He— ‘‘I see, I see; and you are the sul- 
phur lady who is to ignite the stick?” 

She (merrily)— ‘‘He is such a stick! But 
you owe him much for that.” 

He— ‘‘I? And for being a stick, a thing 
of vapidness? Wherefore, I pray?” 

She— ‘‘My scheme to lose him for just 
three minutes has permitted this com- 
mingling of souls out of the haunting 
past.” 

He— ‘‘Oh, joy, great joy!” 

She— ‘‘Now, are you satisfied?” 

He— ‘‘Not yet, not yet. I am glad to 
be assured there is small danger of his 


65 


THE WOMAN’S SOUL HAD CHANGED. 


winning you, but I am sorry to learn I 
have rivals.” 

She— “Rivals? Do I understand that— 
again” 

He (eagerly)— “Yes, again. Why not 
again? Did we not have great happi- 
ness together in those mediaeval days?” 

She (tauntingly)— “You are remember- 
ing more than you did five minutes 
since!” 

He— “I was only asking you the ques- 
tion.” 

She— “You are clever. Modernity is im- 
proving you.” 

He— “It has made you irresistible.” 

She — “Thank you.” 

He— “There is an opening. Step down.” 

She— “There is room for you.” 

They stepped together. 


STEP IV.— SEPARATION. 

He— “You said there is room for me. 
Do you mean it?” 

She— “I cannot keep you out of the 
theatre foyer.” 

He— “But you can close the inner por- 
tals of your heart, if you care to be 
cruel.” 

She— “Don’t you think these confidences 
have been one-sided — all the talk about 
me?” 

He— “A woman should always be man’s 
theme when he is talking to her.” 

She— “That is part of the empty non- 
sense that comes from the dark ages, 
when woman was the plaything of 
‘mighty man,’ and not the recognized 
equal.” 

He— “Ah! you are a new woman in 
this existence?” 


66 


THE WOMAN’S SOUL HAD CHANGED. 

She— “And sorry I was ever an ‘old* 
woman in any former existence. To me it 
is a finer outlook for humanity when 
men and women meet and mate on an 
equality, when woman has rights as 
well as man, when one standard of what 
Is good and what is bad does for both 
sexes. Don’t you agree with me?” 

He— “You speak like the book.” 

She— “I speak from the standpoint of 
a new deal for woman. To me this 
meeting of two once kindred souls is lit- 
tle short of a miracle.” 

He— “In what way?” 

She— “In the chance it affords for a 
unique comparison. Seven, eight, nine 
hundred years ago, we know not when, 
you and I were affinities. In those ages, 
and nearly to this one, woman was the 
dependent, almost the serf, of man. To- 
night inscrutable fate, whose ways are 
limitless and motives unfathomable, has 
tossed us together. We are not the 
same— the woman’s soul has changed, is 
emancipated, has an altered conception 
of mankind and mating. What about 
the man?” 

He— “By George! you are a zealous 
champion of your sex!” 

She— “Don’t be evasive now, please. It 
means too much if, as you say” 

He— “I won’t be evasive. I think it 
would be excellent if we had, as you 
say, one code of morals for both, but is 
it practical in the world as we have it? 
Do you really think that all women, or 
even a bare majority of them, clamor 
for equality, or feel the need of it? Do 
you think they want to change condi- 


67 


THE WOMAN’S SOUL HAD CHANGED. 


tions under which they have been put 
upon pedestals and protected from the 
rubs and knocks of a bustling world?” 

She (after a pause)— ‘‘I am disappoint- 
ed in you. I had thought” 

He— “You asked me to speak frankly.” 

She — “I thought that perhaps modern 
ideas had combined with the inheritance 
of your former soul-qualities to make 
you an original force, to make you dif- 
ferent from the others. I find you a par- 
rot of men.” 

He (humbly)— “You are severe on me.” 

She— “Not severe; only just. You are 
but the echo of the ‘eternal mascu- 
line.’ ” 

He— “You are building ridiculous and 
fanciful barriers about yourself.” 

She (scornfully)— “I cannot make you 
understand.” 

He— “I really think you misunderstand 
me. No man is, or has been, more loyal, 
chivalrous and tender to the woman he 
admires and seeks.” 

She— “Your chivalry and tenderness, 
unfortunately, is of the stamp that 
holds woman the dependent.” 

He — “I declare you wrong.” 

She — “And I avow I am right. A hun- 
dred examples will prove whether you 
are broad-minded, even tolerant, whether 
you really meet woman on the level. 
Let me test you on one rather odd one. 
When we were together before, tobacco 
was unknown. Today ‘the great god 
Nick o’ Teen’ seems greater to most men 
than all other ruling passions, unless it 
be the Arabian A1 Cohol” 

He— “Are you going to ask me, Anon- 
yma, to give up the weed?” 


6S 


THE WOMAN’S SOUL HAD CHANGED. 


She— “How narrow and selfish man is! 
No, I am not going to ask that. You en- 
joy it, don’t you?” 

He— 


“For thy sake, tobacco, I 
Would do anything but die.” 

She— “Well what I want to know is 
would you be willing that I should 
smoke?” 

He (weakly)— “I am not sure” 

She (with scorn)— “Not sure! Why, you 
know you think it wrong! Masterful 
man! Smokes and enjoys it— woman 
must not? God made tobacco for the 
‘sterner sex’! That’s fine philosophy!” 

He— “I had no idea” 

She— “You are right, you did not. And 
yet have you not the courage to see 
the abominable one-sidedness of it all? 
I never smoked a bit in my life. I have 
never wanted to, and yet it has always 
struck me how the women that do are 
met with a Pharasaical raising of the 
eyebrows.” 

He— “Aren’t you pressing a small point 
rather far?” 

She — “It is not a small point. It is the 
crux of the whole business. It means to 
me that the woman you seek in this 
present sphere must be the same as the 
one you sought in all the others— a crea- 
ture who loves, honors and obeys, espe- 
cially obeys— a plaything, not a stimu- 
lating and helpful companion. You are 
helplessly in the same rut. The man’s 
soul has stood still with the rolling of 
the ages. I thank God evolution has 
been my lot!” 

He— “Then we are not to” 


69 


THE WOMAN’S SOUL HAD CHANGED. 


She— “Emphatically, no!” 

Silence. 

He— “There is an opening. Step down.” 
She— “There is no room for you.” 

She stepped alone. 

Beyond was her party. 

He took out a cigar. 




The Clytie's Passenger • 

The Patapsco was being lashed into 
fury by one of those sudden squalls that 
give an anxious half hour to the small 
craft from the boating and yacht clubs. 
A black cloud that was at first but a 
speck in the northwest had rapidly over- 
spread the summer skies. Wind was 
with it, yellow banks of rain clouds be- 
hind it, and the knowing amateur skip- 
pers hastily stripped to the bare poles 
and got out water-proof caps and coats 
to make the best of an uncomfortable 
hour. 

Ned Horton, in the Clytie, had made 
Seven-Foot Knoll that afternoon, and 
was on the way back when the blow 
came. He had a boat that combined “go” 
with staunchness, and, with auxiliary 
gasoline power, there was no reason for 
him to fear a fight with the angry ele- 
ments. But he had no need to hurry 
back to the clubhouse, and rather than 
push ahead, with pitching and tossing, 
he headed the Clytie into the lee of Fort 
Carroll and kept her headed up. Be- 
yond the protecting wall of the old pile 
built by Robert E. Lee the storm had 
broken in full force. A thousand waves 
were capped with white spray, and then 
the rain came down in great sheets, but 
driven obliquely by a wind with some 
force behind it. It was so thick and 
blinding that the furnaces of Sparrows 
Point could not be seen. 


71 


THE CLYTIE’S PASSENGER. 


Ned felt his loneliness as the squall 
poured out its violence. He wished those 
fellows who had promised to come with 
him the afternoon before when golfing- at 
the Maryland Country Club had not 
failed to materialize. He was rather 
cross with himself, too, that he had not 
picked up somebody at the Neptune 
clubhouse when he had found no one he 
cared to take at the Ariel’s. He would 
have been glad to have seen some fellow- 
yachtsman seek the same shelter. It 
was no comfortable job to sit there in 
the driving rain, with the wheel and the 
little engine demanding incessant atten- 
tion. Even the usual solace of his pipe 
was denied, because the tobacco in it 
had got wet, and he could not slip into 
the diminutive cabin to get more. 

A melon-laden bugeye driven by the 
wind loomed into view in the mist, nar- 
nowly escaping crashing into a corner of 
the bastion, and then disappeared again. 
From the channel over beyond came the 
steady reiteration of a steamer’s blow, 
probably an Eastern Shore boat going 
out. Ned discontentedly prayed for the 
twentieth time that the storm would 
cease. But it kept on raining and howl- 
ing. 

Behind him Ned suddenly fancied he 
heard the shrill whistle of some small 
craft. He could see nothing and settled 
down again, concluding that it was his 
nerves. Then he heard it again, and this 
time, by straining his eyes, could just 
make out a little launch, evidently in 
trouble, for whoever was on board 
seemed unable to keep her head up and 
she bobbed uncertainly, shipping water 


72 


THE CLYTIE’S PASSENGER. 


with an occasional broadside wave. She 
appeared to be blowing steadily for help, 
for Ned could see the steam emitted, 
though the contrary wind only gave him 
an occasional sound. 

It was but an instant’s work to start 
to the rescue. The storm was at its 
zenith, and prompt aid was necessary. 
A rolling wave, a big one for the river, 
almost capsized him as he maneuvered 
to turn, but he held on, and his trim little 
boat righted herself gallantly. 

In another minute he was within 20 
yards. A waterman from the foot of 
Broadway was in the stern, and Ned 
saw that the launch was one of those on 
hire in the harbor. The man had stopped 
tooting his whistle, and was again trying 
to keep his frail boat from taking on 
more water. 

“Steering gear broke,” he shouted to 
Ned, in explanation, with his hands as a 
megaphone. Ned could barely hear him. 

Another big roller came. Ned’s craft 
dodged it cleverly, but the other boat got 
it badly, trembled from stem to stern, 
and poked its port bow so far under that 
Ned knew it must have shipped many 
gallons. 

From the cabin of the launch there 
came a scream, and for the first time 
Ned realized that the waterman had 
a passenger, and that the passenger was 
a woman. Her anxious face was pressed 
against the glass of one of the windows. 

Ned redoubled his haste to give aid. 
It was impossible to run close enough 
to the launch to enable him to take the 
woman off. The storm was too severe. 
The next best thing was to try and tow 


73 


THE CLYTIE’S PASSENGER, 
the launch into the lee of the fort. He 
had a stout line, and he made ready to 
throw it. Then he steered as close as he 
dared, and as he passed tossed the line 
to the waterman. It fell short, to his 
great dismay, and the woman cried 
agonizingly “For God’s sake, hurry!” 
On the second trial he was successful. 
The waterman clambered to the bow 
and made fast. 

The haul was a severe one for the lit- 
tle Clytie. But, fortunately, the launch 
was light and Ned made headway, 
though slowly. It seemed to him, too, 
that the force of the storm was slack- 
ening. 

Once out of the wind he hauled in on 
the rope until he had brought the launch 
close enough to speak to its occupants. 
The waterman said something, but Ned 
heard only the passenger. She came out 
of the cabin and held on to a railing on 
the roof to steady herself as the boat 
bobbed. She seemed a woman of per- 
haps 28 or 30, of a dark type. 

“You have saved my life,” she said to 
Ned, warmly, and as afterward occurred 
to him, theatrically. 

“We folk on the water always lend a 
helping hand,” answered he, rather 
cheerily. 

“You were brave and you did nobly,” 
pursued she; “I owe my life to you.” 

The storm was in reality abating. 
Ned’s knowledge of Patapsco squalls 
made him feel sure that the sun would 
soon be out in the west and the river 
resume its wonted placidness. He was 
puzzled what to propose. It was a tough 
proposition to tow the launch to Broad- 
way, and he doubted whether the young 


74 


THE CLYTIE’S PASSENGER. 


woman would agree to come aboard his 
boat and leave the waterman to look 
after himself. 

The young woman settled the question 
for him. She had cast several anxious 
glances down the river and appeared to 
be laboring under some excitement. 

“I must hurry," she suddenly de- 
clared, “Can’t you take me to the city?” 
she asked Ned. 

The latter’s reply was to ask the 
waterman: 

“Do you think we can leave you?” 

“I’ll be all right when the blow lets 
up,” volunteered the launch man. “I 
can fix the blamed thing then. The 
lady’s been in an awful hurry. We could 
a’ run in Sparrows Pint if it hadn’t been 
for her wantin’ to git back.” 

The young woman seemed confused 
when Lawrence glanced at her. “I— I 
have some important business,” she 
stammered. 

“I’ll be glad to take you,” he replied. 

The young woman seemed more grate- 
ful than she had been over the saving 
of her life. Again she gave one of her 
puzzling glances in the direction whence 
she had come. Dropping the oilcloth the 
waterman had loaned her, she handed 
him a bank note out of a satchel at- 
tached to her belt, and when Ned had 
jockeyed the Clytie close to the launch 
she clamored aboard. The water was 
not so smooth that this could be done 
gracefully, and Ned, as she did it, saw 
that her shoes, as well as the bottom of 
her skirt, were very wet. He blamed 
himself that he had not thought of this 
before, and he insisted warmly before 


75 


THE CLYTIE’S PASSENGER. 


he started his boat that she should make 
an effort to dry herself. The young 
woman smiled, for the first time. Ned 
began to think her not at all bad look- 
ing. “I haven’t any woman in my crew," 
he said, with a laugh, “but I can manage 
to fix you up somehow.” 

“I am willing to try,” she said. It oc- 
curred to him for the first time that she 
spoke English with a foreign accent. 

She submitted very obediently when 
Ned told her to hold the wheel for a mo- 
ment, and she cheerfully drank the dose 
that he poured out of a flask from the 
cabin. 

“Now make yourself at home,” he 
said, pointing below, “and for goodness 
sake get off those wet things.” 

The visitor went below. 

“Let me have your shoes,” called Ned; 
“I can dry them by the engine.” 

In a minute two tiny brown Oxford 
ties were tossed out to him. 

“If you don’t mind them,” he remarked, 
“you will find a pair of old gum boots of 
mine in that upper locker.” 

“I’ve got them,” came the answer, “but, 
goodness, I will be lost in them.” 

There was silence for some minutes. 
Then the young woman spoke. 

“Where can I wring out my skirts?” 

“Can you come up?” 

“No-o-o — yes, I can in a minute.” 

Presently she appeared. There was a 
glint of amusement in her glance and 
smile, and Ned was fully convinced that 
under other circumstances she would be 
a jolly companion. She had bright eyes, 
which, with dark hair and a pale face, 
made her rather unusual looking. The 
idea struck Ned that she was or had 
been an actress. 


76 


THE CLYTIE’S PASSENGER. 


She stood in the doorway in uncer- 
tainty. Around her figure she had pinned 
a blanket from the couch below. In her 
hand was a wet brown skirt. She gath- 
ered it in her hands and let the water 
drip over the side. The sun had come 
out, and, though the water was still 
troubled and white-capped, there was a 
wonderful change from a half hour be- 
fore. She remarked about it to Ned. 

The top of the cabin was concluded to 
be the best place to let the skirt dry. 
After she had spread it the visitor care- 
fully sat herself down in the companion- 
way. 

“Aren’t we going finely?” she said. 
This, of course, tickled Ned. What owner 
of a river craft is there who does not 
love to hear it praised? 

“The very best on the river,” he re- 
plied, enthusiastically. “Could beat ’em 
all out in her sailing days.” 

“In her sailing days?” 

“Yes; she was aChesapeake-bay racing 
canoe before I put in this engine.” 

There was silence for a minute or two. 
Ned caught one of those searching 
glances down the river. Unaware that 
he observed her, his visitor rose in her 
seat as if trying to watch for a boat. 

“What were you doing down the river?” 
he asked. 

She gave a quick in-drawing breath 
and her face flushed. 

“I was visiting at Fort Howard,” she 
said, with positiveness, looking at Ned 
with those piquant eyes. 

“Why did you not stay?” he queried. 

She shrugged her shoulders, Paris-fash- 
ion. 

“Suppose I was not asked?” 


77 


THE CLYTIE’S PASSENGER. 


“Why must you be back in such 
haste?” he asked again. 

It was an unfortunate question. The 
girl clasped her hands in some excite- 
ment. 

“I must be back, I must be back,” she 
said, with vehemence. “It is necessary.” 

As she caught Ned looking at her with 
some surprise she altered her manner. 

“Don’t think me ungrateful,” she mur- 
mured. “You have saved my life, and 
you have been so good since, but I must 
hurry.” Then, as if by afterthought, “Per- 
haps it is best for you.” 

“Why?” 

Ned got no answer. 

The Clytie was abreast of the Lower 
Canton elevator. 

“We are getting near the city,” said 
his companion. “Will you do me another 
favor and land me where I can get most 
quickly to my hotel?” 

“Which is that?” 

“The Belvedere. I have been there for 
some days.” 

“I can put you ashore at Fort Mc- 
Henry,” said Ned. 

Again that puzzling excitement. 

“No, no; not there!” 

“Then Broadway is best.” 

“Where I got the launch?” 

“Yes.” 

“Well, take me there, if you don’t mind. 
I know my way from there.” 

Ned would perhaps have questioned 
her more, but the woman rose, felt her 
skirt, and, announcing that it was dry, 
turned to descend into the cabin. With- 
out further words Ned handed her the 
footwear from beside the engine. 

When she came out again he was with- 


78 


THE CLYTIE’ S PASSENGER. 


in a hundred yards of the Broadway 
ferry-house. In the light of the sinking 
sun her mood, as expressed by her coun- 
tenance, appeared depressed. “I don’t 
want you to think me ungrateful,” she 
said. “I shall always remember that you 
saved my life.” She paused. “Perhaps, 
should we meet again, I may be in a po- 
sition to show my gratitude and to sat- 
isfy you as to some things I cannot tell 
you now.” 

“Are we not to meet again?” he asked. 
“May I not come to the hotel tonight?” 

She was silent in indecision. Then she 
gave him one full glance and said: “You 
may come, but it is possible I may be 
called away.” 

“Again that mysterious business,” said 
Ned, lightly. 

“Again that business,” she repeated, 
with what seemed a note of sorrow. 

“I am Olga Lamkin,” she said, as the 
Clytie reached the pier, and Ned, shut- 
ting off power, sprang to help her to the 
street level. 

“And I am Edwin Horton,” he re- 
plied, simply. 

The woman held out her hand, and 
when Ned had taken it, held his warmly 
for a moment. 

“Goodbye,” she said. Her bright eyes 
had softened until Ned felt a new witch- 
ery in them. 

“Until tonight,” he murmured, with 
an ardency that surprised him. 

“I hope so,” said she. Again that 
puzzling expression, as she released his 
fingers. 

As long as Ned was able to watch, as 
he headed the Clytie to turn Fort Mc- 
Henry, she stood where they had parted 


79 


THE CLYTIE’S PASSENGER. 


and waved a handkerchief to him. He 
whistled cheerily on his run to the Ariel 
Club and smiled as he pictured a jolly 
evening at the Belvedere. He was sure 
she had traveled much and experienced 
much, and so could be most entertain- 
ing. The afternoon’s trip had acquired 
a tinge of unusual romance. 

An hour later he was enjoying a be- 
lated supper in the Rennert dining-room 
and calculating how soon it would be 
proper to go on to the other hotel. An 
army man whom he know put his head 
in the doorway, and, after hurriedly 
surveying the tables, was about to with- 
draw, when his eye fell on Horton. He 
came over to him. 

“What brings you up from the Fort, 
Black?” he asked, as they shook hands. 

“Fact is, old man,” said Lieutenant 
Black. “I’m on an important mission. 
Rushed up here posthaste.” 

“What is it?” 

The Lieutenant hesitated. 

“You may help me,” he finally said. 
“Haven’t seen a foreign-looking young 
woman here, with dark hair and a pale 
complexion, have you?” 

Ned’s thoughts were of Olga Lamkin, 
and he started. She answered such a 
description. 

“No-o-o,” he said. “Only been here a 
few minutes. What do you want with 
her.” 

“Want with her? Why, there’s the 
devil to pay about her. She’s been going 
along the Atlantic coast, from city to 
city, getting sketches of our new forts.” 

“Getting sketches?” 

“Yes, plans. She’s a spy, probably in 


80 


THE CLYTIE’S PASSENGER. 


the employ of Germany, though they 
say she’s an ex-Russian, an exile for 
leading a Terrorist revolt. She’s got a 
smooth way, and she has wheedled more 
than one old gray-haired senior into 
showing her things that the Government 
has spent millions on. The Colonel’s 
been thinking she might come here, and 
has been watching for her. But in some 
way she got into Fort Howard this 
afternoon and out again before he got 
word of it. She had a launch, and he 
sent the post boat after her, but a storm 
came up and they lost her. Then they 
’phoned us, but when the launch came 
up it had no passenger, and the man 
said she had gone on another boat.” 

Ned was sickened at the thought of 
his narrow escape. Of course, the Cly- 
tie’s passenger had been the female spy! 

The one thought in his whirling head 
was to get to the Belvedere to her. But 
the too-talkative Lieutenant lingered. 
"‘Beastly job, to be trailing a woman,” 
he growled. ‘‘But the Colonel’s hot be- 
cause she slipped through his fingers. 
He’s doled me off to make a round of 
the hotels. But you can bet she’s not 
likely to linger after the job’s done. 

‘‘Certainly not,” declared Ned, with a 
sinking of the heart. He was sure of it. 

The Lieutenant sauntered out. He had 
scarcely disappeared when Ned bolted 
down stairs and out of the Liberty- 
street door. ‘‘Double fare if you get to 
the Belvedere in five minutes,” he yelled 
at a cabman whom he hailed. 

As the hansom raced up Cathedral 
street, Ned’s head was in a mix. Patriot- 
ism, of course, told him he ought to 
inform on her, but if he did it meant an 


81 


THE CLYTIE’S PASSENGER. 


inquisition for him and a lot of disagree- 
able publicity. Besides, he liked the 
woman, and he admired her nerve and 
courage. He would aid her further if 
need be. “Let those old army fogies 
look out for their own laurels,” he mut- 
tered, as he pulled at his moustache. 

It was as he expected at the Belve- 
dere. When he had hurried up to the 
desk, the clerk who answered his in- 
quiry said: 

“Miss Lamkin? She left about an 
hour ago.” 

“She had an engagement with me,” 
he insisted. “Are you sure?” 

“Are you Mr. Horton?” asked a second 
clerk behind the marble counter. 

“Yes.” 

“Then Miss Lamkin left a note for 
you.” 

Ned barely gave thanks for the en- 
velope, then raced to a corner where 
Black was not likely to see him if he 
came in. In haste he ripped the cover 
and read this: 

Dear Mr. Horton— I am terribly sorry 
I have had to deceive you. I cannot 
stay two minutes more in Baltimore. I 
cannot wait for you, much as I would 
like to. (This was underscored double.) 
It is necessary for both our sakes, as 
you will know if you ever learn the true 
reason, which I dare not tell you— in 
fact, I am ashamed to. But if you 
should know the wnole truth, please 
think of me in the best light. I have 
torn up papers, the obtaining of which 
was the object of my visit to America. 

I am sickened with my errand and re- 
turn to Europe immediately. I shall 
pray that we may meet again, for you 
have been my preserver in three ways 


82 


THE CLYTIE’S PASSENGER. 


today— one of which you know, two I 
leave you to guess. If ever you care to 
meet me after learning the whole truth, 
I inclose an address that will reach me. 
Yours, OLGA LAMKIN. 

A card inside bore this: 

Comtesse Feodorovna Lonsdorff, 

42 Boulevard Haussman, Paris. 

The betting is even that Paris will 
have at least one Baltimore visitor next 
summer. 


A Half-Tone Flirtation 

I have always blamed George Apple- 
ton for it. Perhaps you may not find 
him at fault after you have heard about 
it. At any rate, I shall tell you an hon- 
est story. 

You see, George was publishing at the 
time a sprightly weekly, called Baltimore 
Truth, a sort of melange of society gos- 
sip, feminine fancies and stage “stuff.” 
Sometimes I wrote for it in odd moments, 
and that was what led George to ask me 
to contribute to a symposium for his 
Christmas number. He proposed to ask 
each contributor to tell his opinion of 
Santa Claus in any vein one chose, and 
in each bit he contemplated publishing a 
small half-tone vignette of the writer. 
His plan was a decided success. There 
were 24 portraits, and with each was 
some original thought on the merry St. 
Nicholas. Some wrote with farcical 
touch; some serious; even religious; some 
decidedly flippant. I think I was flip- 
pant. 

I hate to toss bunches of flowers at 
myself, but my picture was decidedly 
good. I had never before been so widely 
circulated, and so with due vanity I sat 
in front of a camera especially for 
George. The result was a good likeness, 
done in Jaanvier’s best finish. The en- 
graver robbed it of a little of the finest 
effect, but my sincere friends, the few I 


84 


A HALF-TONE FLIRTATION. 


bank upon when necessary, said it did 
me proud. 

There was one girl’s picture as an oasis 
in the desert of masculine countenances 
in that Christmas number. She had writ- 
ten for Truth for many months under 
the pen name of Vera, and I had always 
read her articles with interest because 
of their vivacity and genuine force, albeit 
they treated of such topics as whether 
the chignon would confle back, or whether 
the slippers of the Princess of Wales had 
an extra arch to the instep or just the 
arch of the ordinary kind. In this holi- 
day issue I saw Vera’ face for the first 
time. She was undeniably pretty. There 
were bright eyes, probably black; a 
mouth that shadowed firmness, though 
an engaging smile then held possession 
of the lips. The outlines were oval, the 
countenance a decidedly animated and 
intelligent one. I liked it exceedingly. 
There are so many women with facile 
pens who are so homely and uninterest- 
ing in flesh and blood that one wonders 
why or or how they could have gained 
that knowledge of love and romance 
displayed in their stories. 

Truth’s Christmas number sold fast- 
very fast. It was with difficulty that I 
persuaded George to give me an extra 
copy when I stopped in on the morning 
after Christmas on my way down to a 
noon launch at the Baltimore Dry Dock 
Company. 

With the paper thus secured and one 
or two other newspapers and journals 
grasped in my hand, I boarded a Port- 
avenue car at Charles and Baltimore 
streets. There were possibly a dozen 


85 


A HALF-TONE FLIRTATION. 


people of the working classes seated 
there, but my attention was at once at- 
tracted by a young lady who was read- 
ing a magazine or something in an upper 
corner. She was interested in it to such 
an extent that she failed to glance up 
when I marched through the car and 
took a seat opposite. But when the con- 
ductor came to collect my fare she flat- 
tened out her periodical and gave me a 
look. 

Then she bowed with a smile, and I ac- 
knowledged the salutation in my cus- 
tomary manner. 

I have a good memory for faces, but I 
was puzzled this time. For fully three 
minutes I was haunted by a disturbing 
memory. I knew the face, yet I was 
positive I had not the honor of the girl’s 
acquaintance. I was so cock-sure of this 
that I did not venture to take the seat 
alongside of her and ask her where we 
had met. She was evidently too well- 
bred to have done aught but crush me 
if we discovered that we had not been 
formally presented. 

Then it flashed across me. It was 
Vera. I pulled out my copy of Truth, 
and in an instant saw that her half-tone 
was also a good likeness. 

After her bow and smile she had set- 
tled back and plunged into Harper’s 
again. Once she glanced at me, and, 
finding that I was looking at her, turned 
and looked out of the window at Cross- 
Street Market, which our car was then 
passing. It was evident that she, like I 
was not quite sure of the ground upon 
which we had exchanged greetings. Her 
forehead was puckered a bit and there 


86 


A HALF-TONE FLIRTATION. 


was a suspicion of hauteur as if she 
were preparing to get out of a faux pas 
with dignity if things went wrong. 

My action in pulling out the Christmas 
Truth precipitated matters. George had 
an Archie Gunn craze at the time, and 
his front cover had on it one of thos 
sketchy Florodora ladies of the poster 
type, in colors glaring enough to have 
advertised Truth with the plainness of 

a woolen soap “ad.” Of course, she 
recognized it, and, of course, that recog- 
nition gave the clue to her slippery 
memory. She realized that I, like she 
had been in the symposium. Her cheeks 
flushed and she hurriedly dived down 
into the parcel of papers in her lap and 
extracted the number that was respon- 
sible for it. 

I never in my life have received a 
stare so stony as that which she hurled 
at me when she had opened to the page 
upon which my “phiz” was printed, and 
so spotted me. I leave it to you whether 
I was to blame for her having spoken 
to me when I got on the car. My bow 
was what any gentleman would have 
given any lady led so naturally into the 
same mistake. But it was plain just 
then that I was an arrant criminal in 
her eyes, and that, had she been good 
old Queen Bess and I a luckless English- 
man, I would have been led to the block 
instanter. 

The amusing side of it occurred to her 
as the car bowled down Fort avenue. 
There was a bit of a red flush in each 
cheek, and her black eyes sparkled; and 
on her lips, as she glanced at me once 
•only, there danced with roguishness a 


87 


A HALF-TONE FLIRTATION. 


smile more entrancing far than had at- 
tracted me in the vignette. It was as if she 
desired to know me to tell me that she 
had done wrong in regarding as felonious 
what was a jolly mistake. And I, on 
my part, eagerly returned her unspoken 
wish, for I was quite captivated by her 
animation, her intelligence, her positive 
beauty, and I felt that an acquaintance 
with such a charming young blue-stock- 
ing would but grow into something help- 
ful. She was evidently a girl whom any 
man should feel proud to know. 

When the car stopped at the gateway 
at Fort McHenry, she was greeted by a 
big Scotchman who had for some years 
been chief hull designer in the shipyards. 
I knew McIntosh well, and I mentally 
resolved that Mac, who was most oblig- 
ing, would have to present me before the 
launching was ended. The opportunity 
came sooner than I had expected. Some 
body came after Mclintoshfrom the scene 
of the launching just as we entered the 
yards, and in another instant I had been 
called over and presented in due form. 

Mischief lurked in Vera’s eyes. “Have 
we not met before?’’ she asked. 

“Oh! you know Miss Stapleton!” said 
Mac to me in some astonishment. 

“Yes, in Truth, we have met before.” 

Such a hearty laugh as she gave me 
for my impromptu pun! Mac favored us 
each with a puzzled glance and moved 
away. We two made haste to improve 
our acquaintance and to have a score of 
recollections of our respective parts in 
that contretemps on the car. 

I don’t remember much about the launch 
that day. It may have been a Govern- 


88 


A HALF-TONE FLIRTATION. 


ment cruiser and it may not. But if you 
are anxious to know I will go home and 
investigate. For, standing near the dock. 
Miss Stapleton snapped a picture of the 
vessel as she left the ways, and then we 
walked around to the bulkhead of Fort 
McHenry and snapped another of her as 
she lay in the water. Those two pictures 
are on my writing desk, flanking a large 
picture that has much more tone and 
feeling than the little half-tone which 
first made Vera known to me. 

Now, do you think George was to 
blame ? 


89 . 


Chased By The Barye Lion . 

Harold left the lighted portals of the 
Stafford and turned toward the monu- 
ment without exactly comprehending just 
what he was doing. He had shortly be- 
fore bidden farewell to Miss Marjory 
Marjoribanks of the “Fan tana” company 
at the hotel elevator, and that particu- 
larly vivacious blonde young woman had 
so charmed him during their little sup- 
per after the show at Albaugh’s, that 
Harold’s head was in a whirl with 
thoughts of her. 

A blast, apparently from a trumpet, 
roused him to a realization of things 
around him. He had passed the Wash- 
ington Apartment-house and was cross- 
ing the asphalt to the monument. The 
noise sounded strangely near and echoed 
so redundantly that Harold thought it 
must awake the aristocratic denizens of 
this usually peaceful square, so aptly 
called tne “heart of Baltimore.” He 
looked for the source, and— then he 
looked again. Then he rubbed his eyes. 
For, as sure as he was alive, the little 
kid from one of the Barye bronzes in the 
western square was standing on the stone 
coping at its near end and blowing his 
tuba with as much gusto as is usually 
attributed to Gabriel. There could be no 
mistake, for, as Harold peered into 
the semi-darkness beyond, the pedestal 
usually occupied by the tiny chap was 


90 


CHASED BY THE BARYE LION. 


seen to be vacant. 

One more long blast, and the little fel- 
low turned. “I’m glad that’s over,’’ he 
said. “It takes my wind every night.” 
Harold rubbed his eyes again, for the 
trumpeter was certainly not addressing 
him. Then he saw that just behind the 
coping the other little boys from the 
Barye groups were frolicking gaily. It 
was a cold November night, but they did 
not seem to mind the scantiness of the 
garments with which they had been sup- 
plied by the French sculptor. 

At the same time that Harold saw 
them, the bronze lads espied him. “Oh! 
say, you’re going to catch it,” called one 
of them in Frencn 10 the bugler. “The 
square wasn’t empty when you blew. 
There’s a human being. Just wait till 
the General gets down.” 

The little group looked up at the top 
of the tall white marble shaft. Harold 
followed their glances and almost fell 
prone in astonishment. For he very 
plainly noted that the ponderous figure 
of George Washington, always hitherto 
seen by him in a calm, statuesque pose 
on the crown of the shaft, was slowly 
climbing down the side by means of the 
lightning rod. The bronze boys ran away, 
across the square, and Harold, evidently 
thinking that it was also wise for him to 
avoid the “Father of His Country,” turned 
back in the direction of the Stafford. 

Suddenly there was a clattering of 
horses’ hoofs, and Harold drew aside 
just in time to avoid being run down by 
the steed of Col. John Eager Howard, 
who had evidently climbed down from 
his pedestal at Madison street and was 


91 


CHASED BY THE BARYE LION. 


hurrying to assist Washington in his 
long descent. The latter had reached a 
point about 40 feet from the ground, 
when, to Harold’s horror, he seemed to lose 
his grip. In another instant he expected 
to see the big figure— whether marble or 
flesh, it mattered not— dashed to pieces 
on the sidewalk or else impaled on the 
high fence. But he had not counted on 
the daring and agility of Colonel How- 
ard, who made his horse leap the fence, 
bound up to the first portico, put its feet 
against the shaft, and so enable the 
younger officer to reach out his arms and 
lift his beloved chief to the back of the 
animal, whence the pair slid, not un- 
gracefully, to the ground. 

“Thank you, Jack,” said Washington, 
as he brushed some dust ofl: his Roman 
toga. “I’ve been glad more than once 
since they put you in bronze down yon- 
der. I formerly had a most perilous time 
to get down each night. I’m too rheu- 
matic to be agile. Often I fully expected 
the people of Baltimore to find me in ten 
thousand chips the next morning. 35 

Colonel Howard gave a military salute 
as he smiled at the praise bestowed upon 
him. 

“If I might venture to suggest, Gen- 
eral,’’ he said, “why do you go back to 
the top each night? Why not stay nearer 
the ground?’’ 

Washington drew himself together. 

“Architectural symmetry, lad,” was 
his reply, as he pulled at the mane of 
Howard’s horse. “I’m too big to look 
well down here. The people would not 
have awe enough for me. Bad boys 
might chisel their names on my toga.” 


92 


CHASED BY THE BARYE LION. 


Harold was listening in amazement to 
this confidential chat of the two Revolu- 
tionary heroes. How the Daughters or 
the Colonial Dames would have loved to 
have been in his place, he thought! 

“Come, Jack,” he heard Washington 
say. “I’m older than you and I have 
been up there every day for nearly a 
hundred years. I tell you one’s consti- 
tution has to be of stone to stand it. 
Let’s go to Peabody’s chair. I feel like 
sitting down.” 

As the two warriors turned, Harold 
was discovered. He had thought him- 
self hidden in the shadow, but the eagle 
eye of Washington found him. The Gen- 
eral frowned with such awful solemnity 
that luckless Harold, in his terror, real- 
ized how he had been an all-compelling 
leader of men. Such a frown, he said to 
himself, was used to awe Gen. Charles 
Lee on the battle-field of Princeton. 

Washington’s finger was pointing in 
his direction. “There’s an intruder of 
the present day,” he said to Howard, “a 
spy upon our midnight meeting. Put him 
under arrest.” 

The word “spy” completed Harold’s 
fright. 

His knees were knocking together in a 
mad jumble and his stomach felt most 
squeamish. In a few minutes, he reflected, 
Washington would have him dangling 
from one of the trees down there east of 
Mount Vernon Church. 

Colonel Howard rose up on his charger, 
drew his sword, and, cleaving the air in 
a forceful stroke, sternly ordered Harold 
to accompany him. 

“Bring the fellow this way,” called 


93 


CHASED BY THE BARYE LION. 


Washing-ton, as he moved around the 
monument to its east side. Harold could 
scarcely walk, but Howard prodded him 
with the sword and he braced up quickly. 
Chief Justice Taney, he noticed, was not 
in his seat in the north square, and 
George Peabody had descended from his 
chair in the east square. A figure that 
looked like Taney’s appeared to be vio- 
lating the park rules about plucking 
flowers. With him was Teackle Wallis, 
“the baby of our statuesque family,” as 
Washington remarked. Another figure, 
that seemed to be the banker-philanthro- 
pist, was strolling alone on the pave- 
ment of his Institute. He made a re- 
spectful salutation when he saw Wash- 
ington, and the latter majestically re- 
turned it, as he climbed Peabody’s empty- 
pedestal and seated himself. 

“Now, fellow, what have you to say 
for yourself?” he proclaimed at Harold 
with dreadful severity. 

Harold felt his time had come. His 
teeth knocked together so persistently 
that he could not answer the General, 
who repeated the question. Colonel How- 
ard glanced significantly at his sword, 
and Harold, thus egged on, began: 

“I— I— I was g—g—g— going home when 
I— I— I heard— heard the n—n—n— noise.” 

“Heard the noise? What noise? The 
trumpet?” 

Harold could only nod. 

“Did that French boy blow while yov 
were crossing the square?” 

Again a nod. 

The General’s face relaxed somewhat. 

“Careless,” Harold heard him say. “1 
shall take his trumpet away and give it 


94 


CHASED BY THE BARYE LION. 


to one of the other lads." 

Harold took hope from this slight 
change in the General’s demeanor. It 
seemed to him opportune for a plea for 
mercy. But he was balked at the outset 
by a ridiculous lapse of memory. He 
could not recall the proper mode of ad- 
dressing George Washington, never hav- 
ing had occasion to do so before. And 
he felt that if he blundered he would 
damage his appeal. To say to him "Oh, 
Father of Our Country" sounded too 
perfervid. "General" was too familiar; 
it might do for John Eager Howard, but 
not for a trembling prisoner. "Sire" 
would be too monarchical, though it 
seemed to Harold that great personages 
in plays were most often called "Sire." 

At last he bethought himself of "Your 
Excellency," and at once dropped upon 
his knees before the pedestal. 

"Your Excellency," he pleaded, falter- 
ingly, "have mercy upon a poor, inno- 
cent offender. I had no purpose of spy- 
ing upon you. I was straight on my way 
home when the trumpeter attracted me 
and I saw you descending the lightning 
rod. I promise you I will never cross 
this square again at night if you will 
but let me go on my way now." 

"What is your name, my son?" The 
tone was calm, though the countenance 
of the General was troubled. 

"Harold Witherton, Your Excellency." 

"I feel inclined to grant your petition, 
Harold," said Washington. "But first I 
want you to understand what may seem 
to you a foolish prank on the part of 
one who has hitherto enjoyed a reputa- 


95 


CHASED BY THE BARYE LION. 


tion for dignity and self-poise. For more 
than three-score years I was a prisoner 
on the top of that monument. I was 
heartily tired of it, I can tell you; but I 
could do nothing, for my fame was gone 
forever if I were caught off my perch.” 

Harold smiled softly at the General 
using up-to-date slang. Washington did 
not notice the smile. 

‘‘Then Mr. Walters bought those bronze 
groups,” he continued, ‘‘and I saw my 
plan clear. If I could make that little 
trumpeter my zealous watchman, to give 
me a signal when the square was clear 
of humans, I could descend without 
worry and enjoy a little relaxation with 
the other statued heroes of the square. 
The boy promised to obey my instruc- 
tions, and nightly since then we have 
had our hour of exercise. But the lad 
is such a trial! Gentlemen who have 
looked upon the wine when it is red and 
ladies who have lingered over after- 
theatre suppers have on several occa- 
sions been frightened into convulsions 
by seeing me— as you might say— shinny 
down the lightning rod. 

‘‘Once my own carelessness was re- 
sponsible. I had stayed too long at a 
small company of convivial bronze and 
marble spirits, gathered in honor of my 
birthday, and was seen by a negro on 
his way to work. My attitude was per- 
haps undignified, for I had hung my 
toga on the iron railing and was bathing 
my fevered brow in the fountain yonder 
when the black came along. He gave a 
horrible yell, and a bluecoat came. I ran 
for the lightning rod and climbed it. But 
I forgot my toga, and for one whole day 


96 


CHASED BY THE BARYE LION. 


I stood on duty in my nether garments, 
in mortal fear every moment that some- 
body would carry off the toga. It chanced 
to be stormy that day, and passers-by 
were too much in a hurry to cross the 
windy open place. That night I got my 
toga. I’ve never been caught since until 
tonight. But I have heard it said that 
the negro told weird tales of having met 
me at the fountain.” 

Harold admitted he had heard some 
such story, but thought it an idle super- 
stition. 

“I rejoice at your reassuring words,” 
said the General, resuming his austere- 
ness. 

“Now, Harold Witherton, let us decide 
what to do with you. What do you say, 
Jack?” turning to Colonel Howard. 

‘‘I suggest, General,” said the younger 
warrior, “that you make this young man 
give bonds that he will keep away from 
the square after midnight.” 

“A good plan,” said Washington. 

“But I can’t get bail now,” said Har- 
old, in dismay. 

“Maybe Mr. Peabody will help you 
out,” said Washington. “He’s rich.” 

Peabody was still strolling up and 
down the farther side of the street. 

“Come here, George,” said Washing- 
ton, beckoning to the millionaire. Pea- 
body came. The case was explained to 
him. Peabody stroked his whiskers 
thoughtfully. 

“I don’t know this fellow,” he finally 
said. 

Harold spoke up eagerly. “I often read 
at your library,” he said, “and my sister 
takes music from your professors.” 


97 


CHASED BY THE BARYE LION. 


Peabody eyed him closely. “I believe 
I have seen you going in the Institute 
sometimes.” He turned to the General. 

“Well, Mr. President, as he is one of 
my proteges, I consent to go on his bond 
if you will have Mr. Taney draw up the 
papers in proper legal form.” 

Washington was about to speak again 
when a dreadful roar was heard in the 
direction of the north square, and al- 
most instantly Chief Justice Taney was 
seen sprinting across the asphalt in evi- 
dent terror, holding up his Supreme 
Court robes in most undignified fashion. 
Behind him was Mr. Wallis, with his 
coat tails flying. 

“Cheese it, General; the lion’s at it 
again,” called Taney. 

“Great Christopher Columbus!” ex- 
claimed Washington; “am I never to 
have peace?” 

Not far behind Taney and Wallis came 
the bronze Barye lion, his mane bris- 
tling, his eyes gleaming, his nostrils 
breathing angry snorts. Washington 
made a dash; the others scattered. How- 
ard had trouble with his charger, which 
reared madly at the sight of the lion; 
Peabody tore over to the portico of the 
Institute and got behind a column; Wal- 
lis flew into the doorway of Mount Ver- 
non Church; Taney ran to the fountain 
and crouched in it; Harold, having no 
better place, followed him. 

“What’s the matter with the lion?” he 
asked, when he had got his breath. 

“Curious thing,” replied Taney. “Gets 
on a rampage every now and then and 
mixes his nationality. Imagines he’s a 
British lion instead of a French one, 


98 


CHASED BY THE BARYE LION. 


made in Paris, and that he must chase 
Washington. There they go now.” 

Harold looked in time to see Washing- 
ton hot-footing it around the monument. 
Behind him was the lion, making an aw- 
ful racket. 

“Has he ever caught him?” he inquired 
of Taney. 

“No; but he bit a piece out of his gown 
one night.” 

Around and around the circle Harold 
saw Washington and the lion go. The 
former had his toga up and was doing 
his level best. His strenuous days as a 
surveyor in the forests evidently stood 
him in good stead, for the lion was not 
gaining. 

At about the fourteenth lap there came 
an interruption. John Eager Howard had 
got his horse under control and he sud- 
denly dashed in between Washington 
and the beast, with his sword in hand. 

“Up in a hurry,” he said to the Gen- 
eral. Washington turned to the light- 
ning rod. The lion tried to dodge Col- 
onel Howard, and when checked gave a 
savage growl and bit at the horse. In 
trying to save the steed Howard gave 
the lion an opening to make a dash at 
the General, who had only accomplished 
a few feet of his climb. 

“Hustle, General, hustle,” cried Har- 
old, excitedly. 

The Barye Roman soldier from the 
other end of the square joined Howard, 
and they renewed the attack on the lion. 
He turned to engage them, and there 
was a fierce battle for a minute, during 
which Washington showed himself a 
good climber. All of a sudden Howard 


l. OF C, 


99 


CHASED BY THE BARYE LION. 


saw that his gown had gotten entan- 
gled in the rod. Washington stooped to 
disengage the toga, but in doing so must 
have loosened the clamps that held the 
rod to the monument. Harold and Taney 
saw him slowly begin to fall outward, 
still clutching the rod. Harold shut his 
eyes at the impending catastrophe. 
There was an immense crash, and he 
felt, rather than saw, that Washington 
had hit the pavement and had broken 
into thousands of pieces of marble. 


There was another loud crash, and 
Harold opened his eyes to find himself 
lying on his own bed at home, fully 
dressed. Some one was knocking at his 
door. “Get up, Mr. Harold,” he heard a 
servant say; “your mother says your 
breakfast will be ice cold.” 

“Must have had too much of that 
champagne,” muttered Harold, as he 
started to rise. “Only could have been a 
dream about Washington and all those 
statues. Sure.” 

Nevertheless, it was with considerable 
apprehension that he walked up to 
Mount Vernon place as soon as he left 
his home. As he turned from Cathedral 
street he looked eagerly at the top of 
the tall pillar. The statue of Washing- 
ton was in its place. The toga seemed 
to be unrent. He looked again to be 
certain. Then he walked over to the 
Barye group. The same trumpet boy 
held his instrument as of yore. 

“Absurd,” he said to himself, “for me 
to think it might have been real.” 

He passed on to see whether Taney 
and Howard were on their pedestals. As 


100 


CHASED BY THE BARYE LION. 


he got around to the front of the green 
lion, which squatted on its haunches 
and gazed up at Washington, he got a 
shock. 

The Barye lion winked. 

Since then Harold has kept out of 
the square after midnight. 


101 


4 -My Violet 


tt 


They had enjoyed George Ade’s “Col- 
lege Widow” at Ford’s, and had lingered 
over two plates of lobster salad at 
the Hotel Kernan until it was near mid- 
night. But when they came down the 
marble steps, she, disdaining cab or car, 
had elected to walk to her Eutaw-place 
home. Perhaps in the minds of both 
there was a wish for one of those de- 
lightfully intimate chats of which they 
had such memories. The evening’s 
chatter, so far, had mainly consisted of 
her piquant descriptions of a good time 
in Philadelphia, from which she had 
just returned. 

For a block or two along Howard 
street their talk was of the same kind. 
Suddenly the girl changed the current 
by asking: 

“Whom have you been taking to the 
theatre while I was away?” 

They were in the glare of the white 
arc light at Howard and Madison streets. 
He turned and looked at her, only to 
find a gleam of amusement in her glo- 
rious dark eyes. The night was frosty, 
but they had walked briskly since com- 
ing out of the hotel, and there was a 
glow upon her cheeks which he liked to 
see there. She looked just as winsome 
as she had done when he first met her 
seven years before. 

“Nobody,” was the honest, earnest 


102 


“MY VIOLET.” 


answer his lips phrased to make reply 
to her question. He never reflected 
upon the motive of hernnquiry, whether 
it were jealousy, or impertinence or 
curiosity, or merely a stop-gap in the 
conversation while her thoughts wan- 
dered. He had been accustomed to an- 
swer her questions without reserve these 
many months, and this was no excep- 
tion. 

But she was disposed to tease. “They 
told me in Philadelphia that I was a 
‘jollier’ and a heartbreaker,” she said, 
“but the girls who said so hadn’t met 
you, Fred Lamont.” 

He turned quickly toward her with 
newborn anger. They were crossing to 
the pavement of Mount Calvary Church 
by this time, and he looked at her in the 
light of the electric light opposite to this 
ritualistic temple. “You know that 
isn’t fair, Nancy,” he exclaimed. ‘‘I 
never flatter you, and I never express 
any admiration for you that doesn’t 
come from the heart. I was the lone- 
liest fellow in this big town while you 
were gone. I made myself generally 
disagreeable to everyone, and I imagine 
some of them guessed what was the 
matter. Everyone can see it but you, 
and you won’t.” 

“And you went out with no one, Fred?” 
she persisted as they continued up Mad- 
ison avenue. “Not even her?” 

“See here, little girl,” he replied. “You 
know very well I love you.” 

“And you love her, too. Don’t try to 
deny it.” 

“She is nothing to me now.” 

“You loved her deeply last year. Why 


103 


“MY VIOLET.” 


shouldn't I believe you still care for 
her?” 

He leaned toward Nancy. Words rose 
to his lips, but he uttered them not. 

“Do you like violets or chrysanthe- 
mums best?” he asked, abruptly, but 
with complete disregard of grammar. 

“Don’t try to change the subject when 
I have you worsted,” cried this spright- 
ly fin-de-siecle Rosalind. 

“I’m not changing the subject,” Fred 
replied. “Which would you choose for 
keeps— to repeat a phrase of babyhood— 
the queen of autumn or the handmaiden 
of spring?” 

The girl looked down at the little bou- 
quet of purple against her red broad- 
cloth coat. He had bought them that 
day, regardless of cost. “You know very 
well I love the violet,” she said, as she 
raised her head and glanced at him. 
“The chrysanthemums are great big, 
coarse things, splotches of flaming color, 
the butt of the fall crop of comic weekly 
jokes.” 

“Yet you have worn them.” 

“I have, yes. You have given them to 
me,” with just the faintest tinge of a 
blush as he turned to eye her. “Fashion 
makes them popular for two or three 
weeks in the fall, and impressionist ar- 
tists and poets dote upon them. I ad- 
mit that there is a certain bold bid for 
favor about the flower that must ap- 
peal to many. But for me the violet, 
when it can be gotten.” 

“Because it is dainty, fragrant and 
refined; because it is all-pervading in its 
sweet influence, yet never jars upon 
your senses?” 


104 


“MY VIOLET.’* 


“Just because.” 

“Then why shouldn’t I, too, prefer the 
violet for the same reasons? Why 
shouldn’t I say to the chrysanthemum 
T want no more of you. You have your 
charms to many; you had them for me. 
But my cult for you has taught me 
that after all the simplicity and refine- 
ment of the spring flower is most to my 
taste.’ Why shouldn’t I say that, 
Nancy? And why shouldn’t I tell the 
violet so, too?” he demanded. 

The girl was overjoyed at the deli- 
cacy of this recognition of her sway over 
him. But her mood was still sprightly 
and only partially sentimental. And so 
she said, as they walked along: 

“Both lose their bloom so quickly.” 

“Not the violets nowadays,” he said, 
laughingly and triumphantly. “Fond 
care will keep them blooming and fra- 
grant year in and year out. The very 
bunch you are wearing in this wintry 
weather proves that.” 

She was a woman, and so she switched 
back to her original charge. “What an 
artful flirt you are. Your way of put- 
ting things must capture more than one 
poor girl.” 

He was angry, but he was likewise 
philosophical and patient. “She likes 
you as a friend,” his anger prompted, 
“but she doesn’t love you.” “Fifteen 
minutes lost and a pretty speech gone 
to waste,” said his philosophy. “Try 
again,” said his patience. “Maybe the 
speech wasn’t lost, after all.” 

“You know very well the thought I 
wished to convey,” he said to Nancy, 
just as they were at the steps of Bishop 


105 


“MY VIOLET.” 


Paret’s residence. “You know I care 
for you. You’re clever, and you’re a 
woman, and so you must have both wit 
and intuition.” 

“But why did you ever care for the 
chrysanthemum?” she asked, naively. 

All the yearnings of his heart for her 
boiled over at this moment. He might 
have clasped her hands or put his arm 
about her waist had not several belated 
ones been waiting for a Wilkens-avenue 
car at Dolphin street. 

I am not denying I did care for that 
prl, ’ he began slowly. “If you could 
know how she warmed my heart at a 
moment when it was chilled to the 
uttermost depths by your elusive and 
disappointing attitude toward me, you 
might the more excuse me. I cared for 
you from the moment I first saw you, 
even before we met. You liked me, too, 
Nancy, and we became great friends. I 
liked to take you around and to meet 
you at places, because you never failed 
to be bright and entertaining. Pres- 
ently my fondness for you grew warmer, 
but your fondness for me remained sta- 
tionary. I knew that, and so in my 
selfishness I never asked you to be my 
wife. When I found you becoming too 
perilously sweet to me I stayed away 
for a couple of months, until I felt I 
could approach you without fear that 
my rashness would lead to a rebuff that 
would cause both of us pain. Then you 
met that chap from Princeton, and he 
was handsome and a wise flirt, and you 
had a passing fancy for him. My jeal- 
ousy led to our first quarrel, and I left 
you with the idea that you would be- 


106 


“MY VIOLET.” 


come his wife." 

“How ridiculous! He and I forgot 
each other in a month,” said saucy Miss 
Nancy. 

“Very likely. But you didn’t let me 
think so then.” 

She smiled. 

“Then I met this other girl. I knew 
her brother. It was not long before we 
were on a close footing. She was just 
out of school, unaffected, genuine, at- 
tractive. I don’t know which of us first 
loved the other, but it was not long be- 
fore we had told each other. Then came 
six months of sunshine and happiness. 
We never quarreled, we never doubted. 
But gradually there grew up in my mind 
the knowledge that she was not like 
you, that she lacked your spirituelle 
qualities, your intelligent merriment, 
your elevation above petty things. I be- 
gan to regret her mere prettiness. Prob- 
lems of heredity began to interest me. 
Nobody is more democratic than I, no- 
body less snobbish. But her family 
were not high-bred, and their shortcom- 
ings became painfully apparent to me. I 
would not say this to anyone but you, 
dear, because I respected them, and I 
don’t want to feel embittered toward 
them. Realizing that their grandfather 
had kept a saloon, I couldn’t help feel- 
ing that brains and ambition had been 
necessary to elevate them to their pres- 
ent social status; and I honored them 
for their brains and their ambition. 
Still I grew tired of a girl who cared 
only for dress and admiration and pleas- 
ure, and I detested the circle which her 
family had created for her.” 


107 


“MY VIOLET.” 


He paused for a moment. They were 
on the pavement of the old mansion used 
by the School Board. The girl looked 
at him a little curiously, and she felt a 
little prouder of him as he said: 

“Mind you, I was loyal to her. I told 
my family not a word of my misgivings, 
and though I brooded over them con- 
stantly I always greeted her with kindly 
face. Perhaps I was wrong to lie to her 
so; perhaps I ought to have confessed 
that I was mistaken in the belief that I 
wanted her to be my wife. But my 
honor forbade that, and so we drifted 
on. Sometimes her simplicity and sweet- 
ness decoyed me into believing that 
after all she might make me a dear, 
good wife, one that I could cherish, and, 
with love rekindled, go together through 
life. 

‘‘Then came our quarrel. It was a bit- 
ter one, starting in a trifle, but possess- 
ing so many ramifications as to draw in 
all her family and some of her friends, 
before I was worsted. She developed a 
quality I had never known in her be- 
fore; she was unreasonable and obsti- 
nate, refusing to accept my apologies 
and burning up my letters to her with 
a vindictiveness that paralyzed me. For 
a few weeks the shock to my egotism 
was such that I was unswerving in my 
efforts at a reconciliation. 

‘‘Then one day came one of your fa- 
miliar notes, and I was forever cured of 
her. I realized that it was all such a 
petty affair compared with the comrade- 
ship you offered. I did not care at all 
whether I was ever readmitted into her 
intimacy, and I did not want to be ad- 






108 


“MY VIOLET.” 


mitted into the shallow commonplace- 
ness of her family. Since then, my dear, 
I have thought only of you, have as- 
pired only for you.” 

They had reached the steps of her 
home by now. The girl’s eyes were 
downcast. “I have heard of hearts be- 
ing caught on the rebound,” she said, 
with a weak attempt at her former play- 
fulness. 

He took her hand. “Can’t you under- 
stand that it was she who caught my 
heart on the rebound from you?” he 
asked, pleadingly. “Can’t you see how 
my experience with her has clarified, 
has illumined the love I have for you? 
Can’t you see, Nancy, that the dearest 
ambition of my life is to make you my 
wife?” 

She did not resist him as he put an 
arm about her. But she took his cheeks 
between her two little gloved hands, 
and, turning his face into the silvery 
gleam of the January moonlight, she 
gazed at him earnestly as she said: 

“Are you sure you have never a 
thought for her nowadays?” 

“I am sure, my darling. I could have 
asked you to listen to this weak con- 
fession before you went away, but I 
wanted your absence to prove that my 
heart was empty and waiting for you 
and none other. Every moment I longed 
for you, every day I wanted my” 

“Your violet,” she murmured, as she 
put her arms closer about his neck. 

“Yes, my violet,” he repeated, ten- 
derly, as he kissed her. 


109 


The Surrender Of Adoniram J. 

Among merchants of Northeast Bal- 
timore A. J. Hesketh was regarded as a 
“live” business man. Along with the 
good old missionary name of Adoniram 
Judson, which his Baptist mother had 
bestowed on him, he had received a 
good slice of proverbial Scotch shrewd- 
ness by way of his father. As a result, 
he was prospering. His factory on 
Caroline street grew steadily in acreage 
and output, he was a shining light in 
the Improvement Association, a director 
of the bank on Gay street and of other 
“Old Town” enterprises, and not un- 
known in the bankers’ and brokers' 
offices of German and South streets. The 
plain two-and-a-half story brick home 
on Ann street, with its white-painted 
wooden steps, had some years since been 
exchanged for a large residence on East 
North avenue, near Broadway, the 
largest on the block in fact, with red 
granite steps and trimmings, a bow- 
window front and a granite carriage 
block at the curb for Mrs. Hesketh to 
use when she drove to market— she still 
went to Belair— or went out to view 
and be viewed of an afternoon in Druid 
Hill Park. 

But in the bosom of his family A. J. 
Hesketh’s positive qualities were the 
source of much vexation. Now, there 
was that matter about the house. Mrs. 


110 


THE SURRENDER OF ADONIRAM J. 


Hesketh’s social aspirations yearned for 
Roland Park, or Charles street between 
Mount Vernon place and Mount Royal 
avenue, and in this she was stoutly 
backed up by the two children. But 
Adoniram J. put his foot down hard. 
He said it would hurt his business. They 
told him he had money enough to do it 
anyhow. Then he said he’d a heap 
rather been the one big potato in a lit- 
tle patch than one of a thousand tubers 
in an acre lot. “No, siree, Arabella,” 
declared Adoniram J., “we stay near 
Broadway.” 

Then there was that vexation about 
the children’s names. The boy did not 
hanker after Adoniram as a handle. His 
companions at the grammar school at 
Washington street and North avenue 
“kidded” him about it, and they got in 
so many shots at “A Jay,” when the in- 
itials only were used, that young Hesk- 
eth finally blossomed forth as Judson — 
that is, to everyone but his father, who 
grimly went out of his way to call him 
Adoniram in the presence of others. So, 
too, with Helene. “Ellen was good 
enough for your grandmother,” said Pa, 
“and I thought your aunt was hifalutin’ 
when she called it Helen. But Helene — 
in the name of all that’s holy, where’d 
you get it?” As a matter of fact, Helen 
got it when she studied French history 
at the Eastern High School. It struck 
her as smart, and as soon as she got 
the spending money she blew herself to 
cards with “Helene Hesketh” engraved 
on them. 

There was never a time that the head 
of the family did not have some pet 


111 


THE SURRENDER OF ADONIRAM J. 


aversion, to the disquietude of his fam- 
ily. Against anything approaching the 
problem play in the theatres he fulmi- 
nated with emphatic comments, and 
Ibsen, Hauptmann and Shaw were at- 
tendants of His Satanic Majesty. Some 
of the vagaries of women’s fashions 
likewise caught his wrath, and woe to 
the girl who called to see Helene mod- 
ishly attired in the days when tight- 
fitting skirts prevailed. 

It was no surprise, therefore, when 
Hesketh senior came out against auto- 
mobiles. He called them engines of 
hell, just as he had called the modern 
playwrights the agents of the demon. 
None in the family had any idea of his 
new object of hostility until Judson men- 
tioned at supper one evening that he 
had had a “bully” spin that day in a 
friend’s car. The father stopped eating 
and held his knife in air. 

“Car! Do you mean a railroad car or 
one of them durned new-fangled things, 
auty-mobeels, or whatever you call 
them?” 

“It was an automobile,” said Judson, 
with a sinking heart. He knew the 
signs. 

“And have you joined the reckless 
crew that sweeps down with death and 
destruction upon honest, God-fearing 
citizens?” 

Helene chimed in, “I think it’s just 
fine to ride in them, Father,” she said. 
She always used father when she did 
not forget herself. 

Hesketh senior’s eyes glared. 

“Are you aware, Ellen Hesketh,” he 
burst out, angrily, the name making 


112 


THE SURRENDER OF ADONIRAM J. 


the girl wince, "are you aware that your 
father was in peril of his life only yes- 
terday from one of them machines?” 

No one made any reply. It was safest 
not to. 

“I was crossing Fayette street, at St. 
Paul,” pursued the father. "I had waited 
for a car to pass, and was not thinking 
of anything else, when all of a sudden 
a big car, as you call it, blew one of 
them blamed siren whistles, and bless 
me if it wasn’t only six feet from me 
and coming straight for me. It was all 
I could do to get over. The wheels 
threw mud on me. Think of it, the 
wheels threw mud on me!” Hesketh 
senior was excited. 

Judson felt like remarking that his 
father ought to have used his eyes, ears 
and head in crossing such a busy street, 
but he refrained. 

"Now, let me tell you,” affirmed the 
father, bringing his hand down with a 
whack, *‘I don’t want any nonsense 
about automobiles in this family. Don’t 
let me hear of your being fools enough 
to ride in them, for if you do I” — - 

And so it was that the dictum against 
automobiles was registered. Judson and 
Helene were in despair. More than once 
they had ridden many miles in the 
French car of Judson’s friend, Tom Lan- 
ahan, and thought it great sport. 

"What on earth are we to do?” asked 
Helene, almost in tears. 

"Do,” replied Judson, "you may do 
what you please, but I intend to keep 
on riding with Tom. We are both of age, 
and may do as we see fit. Besides, Pa’s 
opposition is only due to unreasonable 


113 


THE SURRENDER OF ADONIRAM J. 


prejudice. He might just as easily have 
swung the other way and gone daft on 
autos.” 

Helene had a cosy corner in her heart 
for Master Tom, and, besides, one felt 
so altogether smart and modish to “‘dike 
out” in auto veil and coat, and, seated 
beside that very capable young motorist, 
to bowl merrily and swiftly over the 
roads of Baltimore county. 

“You don’t suppose Pa will change, 
do you?” she inquired, anxiously. 

“Not much, unless— say, Helene, have 
you forgotten those baseball days?” 

Helene laughed. Pa Hesketh as a 
baseball “crank” was one of the family 
jokes. When Baltimore’s team was win- 
ning pennants under Hanlon, and thou- 
sands thronged Union Park each day, 
the old gentleman had inveighed almost 
daily against Judson for wasting time 
and quarters in attending the games. 
The berating had ceased, and Judson 
had kept on going. Then one day he 
ran plump into Pa in the grand stand, 
and the older man, seeing he was cor- 
nered, excitedly began to talk champion- 
ship ball, and compromised by buy- 
ing season tickets for both. Incidentally 
he asked Judson to keep his secret at 
home. 

“Oh! Judson,” said Helene, when their 
laugh had subsided, “you don’t suppose 
Pa might ever be converted to an auto?” 

“I’d like to get him into one once. 
He’s a sport all right when he gets 
waked up to it.” 

For a month or two, however, Pa made 
his views on autos most plain and gall- 
ing. He introduced the subject fre- 


114 


THE SURRENDER OF ADONIRAM J. 

quently at the table, and he resorted to 
one of his time-tried devices to rein* 
force his views. Whether it was news- 
paper or periodical they picked up, Jud- 
son and Helene found paragraphs on 
auto accidents or arrests for scorching 
and denunciations of reckless spinning, 
carefully marked and sometimes under- 
scored. 

“I vow,” said Helene in despair one 
evening after supper, “I am never going 
to look at a paper again.” 

It is needless to say that both young 
Heskeths continued to ride with Tom 
Lanahan whenever they were invited. 
The opportunities were too delightful to 
be missed. At the same time some 
strategy was necessary at home to avoid 
squalls. One day Tom’s machine got 
stuck in Green Spring Valley, and Hel- 
ene, who was with him, not reaching 
home until 10 o’clock at night, was at her 
wits’ end for excuses. Another day con- 
siderable maneuvering had to be in- 
dulged in to carry out a plan for an all- 
day run to Westminster. 

‘‘Don’t you really think Pa believes 
we go in the auto?” asked Helene. 

‘‘Yes, I do. I feel he knows, and yet 
realizes he can’t do anything. Have 
you noticed he hasn’t had anything to 
say lately?” 

‘‘And he hasn’t marked the paper for 
a month or more.” 

On the afternoon of Defenders’ Day 
they were going in Tom’s auto to the 
annual tournament at the Confederate 
Soldiers’ Home, at Pikesville. Helene 
was seated beside Tom, and Judson was 
in the rear with Hildegarde Matthews, 
v 


115 


THE SURRENDER OF ADONIRAM J. 


whose home opposite Madison square 
was very much of a magnet to him. The 
girls looked their best. Helene’s laven- 
der veil, matching her linen jacket suit 
and hat, was tied jauntily under her 
chin, and Hilda was in white linen, with 
veil and hat of corresponding immacu- 
lateness. The attention they drew as 
Tom guided the auto over Chase street, 
out Mount Royal avenue, through Druid 
Hill and along Park Heights avenue 
pleased the entire quartette. The speed- 
way was more than usually full, it be- 
ing a bright holiday, and they raced 
with other cars, cut past driving teams 
and kicked up a healthy dust for the 
crowded Owings Mills and Emory Grove 
cars. 

As they were passing Denmore Park 
a red auto coming from Electric Park 
turned from Belvidere avenue into the 
roadway ahead of them. “Hello!” said 
Tom, “that’s one of those new Ameri- 
can makes, 24-horse-power, or I’m an- 
other.” 

“Can’t you give ’em a brush?” asked 
Judson. Tom’s reply was to throw on 
more power. The road seemed clear 
enough, and his French car began to 
reel off rods. The other auto was go- 
ing well, too, but by the time Rogers 
avenue was reached Tom had lessened 
by half the distance between, and they 
could see that the machine ahead had 
two occupants, a man who was running 
it, and another beside him. 

“Let ’er rip, Tom. This promises to 
be good.” 

The occupants of the car ahead pres- 
ently discovered them and made it a 


116 


/ 


THE SURRENDER OF ADONIRAM J. 

race sure enough. But the imported 
car showed its superiority, and in less 
than a mile and a half Tom was abreast 
of the other auto, to the great joy of 
Judson and the girls, who were en- 
thusiastically excited. The man who 
was running the opposition car was a 
middle-aged or elderly gentleman with 
a gray moustache, but little else could 
be seen of him, for he wore a motorist 
cap and extra large goggles. He was 
concentrating all his energy on the 
steering and going, with the advice of 
his companion, who seemed to be a ma- 
chinist. 

For a brief space the autos were side 
by side. Then Tom began to forge ahead 
and throw dust on the other fellow. 
“Great!” said Judson. “Glorious fun,” 
the girls voted. “We’ll win,” muttered 
Tom from between set teeth. 

Presently the other car was behind, 
but Tom kept up the riotous speed. Jud- 
son looked behind. “By George! they’ve 
given it up. They’re slackening.” 

The girls looked back. 

‘They’re turning,” cried Hilda. 

“They’re turning too wide!’, ex- 
* claimed Judson. “They’ll go in the 
ditch.” 

Helene gave a scream. “Heavens!” 
she cried, “they’re in it; both are thrown 
out!” 

That was just what had happened. 
The other motorist, abandoning the con- 
test, had suddenly tried to turn back, 
and, steering badly, had descried a curve 
into the ditch. He and his companion 
had been tossed out. 

In less time than it takes to tell Tom 


117 


THE SURRENDER OF ADONIRAM J. 


had slackened, stopped, backed into the 
entrance of the Maryland Country Club 
and run back to the scene of the acci- 
dent. 

“I hope they’re not hurt,” said Helene. 
All four pairs of eyes were strained on 
the two figures and the ditched car. 

“They can’t be, because they are get- 
ting up.” 

The defeated autoist had lost his broad 
cap and dropped his goggles, and, in 
addition to mud on his clothes, a broad 
smudge on his right cheek made his 
appearance rather ludicrous. 

“Good Lord, it’s Pa!” exclaimed Hel- 
ene in a hushed voice, as Tom slowed 
down. 

And it was. 

Judson irreverently laughed. 

“How do you like motoring, Dad?” he 
called, cheerfully. It struck him that 
he and Helene had the best of an awk- 
ward situation. 

Hesketh senior prayed devoutly that 
Judson might suddenly become a few 
years younger. Then he could mentally 
promise him a licking when they reached 
North avenue. 

“I thought you were opposed to au- 
tomobiles,” said Helene, very sweetly. 

Adoniram J. Hesketh’ s wrath was 
transferred to her. He glared, but the 
fierceness of his glance was spoiled by 
that patch of mud on his cheek. 

“How did you come to spill, Mr. Hes- 
keth?” asked Hilda. 

The father spoke for the first time. 

“Been all right if I hadn’t recognized 
you and tried to turn,” he muttered. 

‘Why, Pa,” said Helene, “you ddn’t 


118 


THE SURRENDER OF ADONIRAM J. 


mean to say you were running away 
from us?” 

There was a silence. 

‘‘Say, Pa,” said Judson, “do you re- 
member the day I met you at the base- 
ball game?” 

Hesketh senior began to see the hu- 
mor of it. 

‘‘You’ve caught me again, you young 
scamp,” he declared. 

‘‘How long have you been at it this 
time?” asked Judson. 

‘‘I’ve had the machine about a month,” 
said the father. 

‘‘Oh! father,” cried Helene. ‘‘And is 
the machine really ours? Isn’t it a 
beauty?” 

‘‘It’s really ‘ours’ on two conditions,” 
replied Adoniram J., who now wore a 
smile. ‘‘Don’t tell your ma how long 
I’ve had it, and don’t tell her I spilled 
myself in the ditch.” 

‘‘That’s a bargain,” said Judson. 

‘‘Come up to the club and brush up a 
bit, Mr. Hesketh,” said Tom. 

‘‘I’d like to if I can get the machine 
out on the road again.” 

With the aid of a bit of wire rope, 
Tom pulled the red auto ‘‘on its feet” 
again, so to speak. The machinist took 
charge of it and began to tinker, while 
the others passed on up to the club- 
house. There on the pleasant broad ver- 
anda the automobile treaty of peace of 
the Hesketh family was duly sealed 
and ratified, with Miss Hildegarde Mat- 
thews and Mr. Thomas Lanahan as sub- 
scribing witnesses. 

Almost any clear day the Hesketh 


119 


THE SURRENDER OF ADONIRAM J 


auto is likely to shoot past you, some- 
times with Adoniram J. at the lever, 
sometimes with Judson and sometimes 
with Helene or Mrs. Hesketh, conducted 
by a chauffeur— for Hesketh senior did 
things right once he got the fever. 


120 


"77ie Same Old Story 

She came into the magistrate’s room so 
quietly that none of us knew just how 
long she had been there when ’Squire 
Clark asked her what she wanted. It 
was Thanksgiving Day, and dispensing 
police justice happened to be a dull busi- 
ness, so that the magistrate and we 
newspaper men had been enlivening the 
hour by exchanging the latest stories. 
There were four of us there, and proba- 
bly our laughter and merriment grated 
on the little woman. At any rate, she 
looked up at us timidly as we lounged 
there in favorite attitudes. 

“What can I do for you, madame?” 
Clark reiterated as he picked up a big 
ruler and toyed with it. 

“I want to get a warrant— a warrant 
for— for my husband.’’ 

The men from the other papers had 
been doing police work steadily for sev- 
eral years, and so after one of them had 
remarked “Same old story,’’ with ap- 
parent callousness, the two settled back 
into the attitudes which had been theirs 
when the woman came in. But I hadn’t 
heard any of these magistrate's cases 
for some two years, and so I moved into 
a chair beside the justice. 

“Upon what charge?’’ asked the ’Squire 
in his kindliest tones. 

“He struck me, sir.’’ As the woman 
moved nearer she came more into the 
light of a side window, and we saw for 


121 


“THE SAME OLD STORY.” 


the first time that there was a welt over 
her right eye and a great wide gash on 
her jawbone, running back under her 
ear. She was young— probably about 25 — 
evidently uneducated and of the poorer 
classes, but with rather pretty features. 

“Tell me all about it.” 

She began the story with an apathy 
that seemed born of utter helplessness, 
yet there was just a glint of hope in her 
eyes, as if the man she was addressing, 
with the power of the State of Maryland 
behind him, might do much to succor 
her. She had plainly been crying, but 
there were no sobs in her voice as she 
told of her husband’s brutality. She 
spoke slowly, in low tones, almost me- 
chanically. Yet I fancied that her soul 
writhed within her as her mind ran over 
the scenes she was describing. 

It was a story such as is narrated 
nearly every day in brief fashion in 
some one of the local papers. “Jim” had 
come home drunk in order to carry away 
for a raffle a Thanksgiving turkey which 
she had bought out of their scanty 
means. She had tried to prevent him and 
he had struck her under the eye. The 
turkey and all his money were gone 
when he returned several hours later to 
the Durham-street home, and insisted on 
pulling her out of bed to renew cneir 
quarrel. In his mad rage he had sud- 
denly seized a heavy water pitcher and 
hurled it at her. It had smashed on 
the wall over her head, drenched her 
night dress, and, most pitiable of all, 
the pieces had gashed her face, arms 
and shoulders in a dozen places. 

There are chivalrous impulses in men’s 


122 



“THE SAME OLD STORY.” 

hearts in these hurly-burly times, though 
cynics laugh, and my blood boiled at the 
beastliness of the man’s behavior. The 
young wife, with much effort and evi- 
dent pain, pulled up her sleeves and 
showed us some of the bloody cuts. 
There were others upon her shoulders, 
she said. 

Justice Clark had picked up his war- 
rant blank as the serious portion of the 
woman’s narrative was being unfolded, 
and when she had finished it was duly 
filled in. She hesitated a moment as he 
asked her to lay her hand on the open 
Bible and swear to the truth of the 
charges, but it was manifest that her 
pause was not the cowardice of a liar, 
but the doubt of a woman who had not 
quite made up her mind to punish by the 
aid of the law a man who was the 
father of her child. 

“Shall I tell Jim you want him?’’ she 
said, with a hollow sound in her throat. 

“No, the police will attend to that.” 

She drew herself together when the po- 
lice were mentioned. Another mental 
picture that tortured, I fancied. As she 
turned to go, after thanking Clark, there 
were tears in her eyes. She hurried out 
and disappeared into the dusk along 
Bank street toward Broadway. 

I was in the station when “Jim” was 
brought in. He was a big, burly iron 
molder, employed at Sparrows Point, 
and he answered sullenly the questions 
which Lieutenant Hickman put to him. 
From him we learned that he had been 
married about six years, and that he had 
one child— a little girl of 3. When he 
was asked about the assault his only re- 
ply was a muttered assertion that his 


123 


“THE SAME OLD STORY.” 


wife had gotten her cuts and bruises by 
a fall down stairs. Such excuses don’t 
“go” in a police station; they are heard 
too often. 

When the hearing took place the next 
morning the wife’s manner was differ- 
ent from what it had been when her 
husband was not present. She told the 
story with more emotion and less coher- 
ency, and there was a spot of height- 
ened red beneath each eye. Once she 
glanced at “Jim” as he stood farther along 
the railing, and the result was almost a 
breakdown. Several times Clark had to 
steer her aright by diplomatic questions. 
The ultimate result was that her narra- 
tive tallied in the main with what had 
been told us the day before. 

“Jim” didn’t have his excuse this time. 
When asked if he had anything to say 
he shambled and twisted his hands and 
finally said: 

“ ’Squire, I know I oughtn’t ter hit ’er. 
She’s been a good wife and she’s done 
everything fur me. But I just was full 
of liquor, chock full, and there ain’t a 
man as what’s chock full of the whisky 
that don’t do somethin’ or uther he’s 
ashamed uf when he gits sober. I didn’t 
know I’d hit her or broke the jug on her 
till the next mornin’, and then I was 
cross and she didn’t get no sympathy 
from me.” 

“I have been the Magistrate in this 
district for a year now,” said Clark, 
with severity, “and I can’t recall among 
the many miserable stories I have had 
to listen to anything more brutal than 
your conduct Wednesday night. You say 
she’s been a good wife to you, and she 


124 


“THE SAME OLD STORY.” 


looks like that kind. Everyone of those 
g-ashes on her arms and face makes me 
feel more disposed to punish you in some 
manner that would make you realize 
how you hurt her. We have the whip- 
ping-post for wife-beaters, but if I send 
your case to court it is a thousand to 
one that you don’t get forty lashes less 
one. So that I am going to sentence you 
myself to three months in the House of 
Correction. Ninety days at Jessups Cut 
will give you leisure to think matters 
over and to realize that it is something 
to have a good home and a nice family.” 

The wife drew in her breath with such 
vehemence that her gasp was heard by 
everyone in the room. Then “Jim” did 
something which showed how much of a 
swagger bully he was. He moved toward 
his wife and, with clinched fist, said to 
her, as she shrank from him: 

“You’ve got me in for this, curse you. 

But you’ll be sorry for it. Why in h 

couldn’t you keep your troubles to your- 
self, without coming down here to tell 
’em? I’ll make you suffer for it when I 
get out.” 

“You won’t get out so soon,” said 
Clark, with promptitude, as two blue- 
coats stepped between the man and his 
wife. “I increase your term to six 
months, and I also fine you $10 for un- 
seemly conduct in this courtroom. Turn- 
key, take away the prisoner.” 

As “Jim” was led back to a cell the 
wife turned away from Clark’s railing 
and half-followed her husband. A spec- 
tator got in the way, but as “Jim” 
reached the door of the room, she held 
out her hand appealingly to him, as if 


125 


“THE SAME OLD STORY.” 


for forgiveness. He sneered, or, rather, 
snorted, and then gave a coarse chuckle. 
She sobbed aloud and hurried out the 
other door to the open air, without a 
word of thanks to the Magistrate. 

The men from the other papers pre- 
dicted that within 24 hours she would be 
back again asking for “Jim’s” release. 
In fact, they were so sure of it that they 
were willing to make a wager on it. I 
didn’t think so. I argued that it was 
naturally heart-rending to her to see her 
husband sent to a prison, and that was 
the cause for her apparently desiring 
forgiveness; but that when she got home, 
in the room where he had so disfigured 
her, her emotion would pass away, and 
she would realize a positive relief at be- 
ing freed from such a brute. Clark 
rather agreed with me, but he said you 
could not gamble on anything that a 
woman would do. “I . rather liked the 
little woman,” he said, “and I hope she’s 
got the grit to stick it out.” 

The next day she did not come, and 
Clark and I began to be even more con- 
fident. But on Sunday she walked in. 
Her manner was even more quiet and 
timid than it had been when we first 
saw her. But when she spoke to Clark 
it was with more assertiveness than we 
had yet seen her show. 

“I want you to let ‘Jim’ go,” she said. 

“My dear madam,” said Clark, “I 
haven’t anything more to do with him. 
He has been sent down to the House of 
Correction.” 

She called his bluff in a moment. “You 
can set him free, and you know it. Folks 
on our block has told me you can make 


126 


“THE SAME OLD STORY.” 


out a release for him.” 

“Why do you want him out?” 

“Because I can’t live without him,” 
she replied doggedly. “I love him, and 
he’s all I’ve got, except Mamie. And he’s 
Mamie’s father. And God only knows 
who is going to provide for us while 
“Jim” is in a place where my foolishness 
put him. I hadn’t ought to have come 
here and told you about him. He was 
right when he said that. Every husband 
and wife has quarrels, and I guess ‘Jim’ 
ain’t no worse than most men. I hadn’t 
any business making him angry when he 
wanted the turkey. His money paid for 
it and his money pays for all that we 
wear and all that we eat, and he’s the 
kindest in the world when he’s not 
drinking.” 

“He’ll beat you again if I let him out.” 

“What do I care?” said she, defiantly. 
“I guess I can stand a beating or two. 
Why, ’Squire, I love him. Do you hear 
that? I love him, and he loves me, and 
I forgive what he does and he for- 
gives what I do. I pray Heaven he may 
forgive me for getting him shut up this 
time. Maybe he won’t.” There was just 
a catch in her voice, a quaver that may 
have denoted fear. 

“You are afraid because he threatened 
you?” asked the Justice. 

‘‘I tell you I ain’t afraid of anything 
from him. I want him back, that’s all. 
We have just been so lonely, Mamie and 
me, since Friday, and this morning I 
went to church and prayed God that I 
might be forgiven for what I have done. 
You will let him out, I know.” 

Clark silently blotted out a release for 
her. She took it eagerly when he had 


127 


“THE SAME OLD STORY.” 


blotted it and kissed it. “Thank you, 
’Squire,” she said. “I am going to be a 
more obedient wife, because I do love 
‘Jim.’ ” and sne hurried away. 

“She may be a good wife, but she’s a 
very foolish woman,” said Clark. 

“Didn’t I tell you it was the same old 
story?” said one of the other reporters. 

“She’ll be back again in a month or 
so,” I remarked. 

“What made her get him out?” asked 
Clark. “Was it love for ‘Jim,’ fear be- 
cause of his threats, or only the need of 
support?” 

“That is a question upon which you are 
not required to pass as a magistrate,” 
said I, ‘‘for which you may thank good- 
ness.” 


128 


The Rosary From Montmartre ♦ 

The Doctor was engaged for the twen- 
ty-second time in three days in repeat- 
ing the story of the robbery of his home 
on Tuesday night. His two dinner 
guests were listening with absorption. 
The newspapers had been full of it, but 
it is so different to get a thing first- 
hand, don’t you know. At the upper end 
of the table the Doctor’s wife was dish- 
ing four plates of salad. “We had been 
here at table quite half an hour,” the 
Doctor was saying. “In fact, Mildred 
had just ordered the salad brought on. 
So you see the thieves had had time to 
overhaul the jewelry upstairs and take 
what they got away with. We had all 
just settled down again after one of 
Tyger’s puns— you know Tyger’s puns— 
when there came a slight noise from 
upstairs. It seems rather curious how 
things happen, but Mildred and I in- 
stantly located that sound correctly. 

“ ‘That’s the rosary,’ she said to me, 
with an inflection of alarm in her voice. 

“I felt intuitively that it was hardly 
likely that it could have fallen to the 
floor of its own volition. The servants 
were all downstairs, the rest of us were 
at the table. I leaped to my feet and 
went to the second floor two steps at a 
time. The others were not far behind. 

“The rosary hung on a wall in the 
third room— the room just over this. In 


129 


THE ROSARY FROM MONTMARTRE. 


front of it Mildred has for a long time 
kept a sanctuary lamp burning. When 
I got there the lamp was out. For an 
instant I thought we might be shot at, 
but I threw over the light switch and 
found the room empty. On the floor 
under the lamp was the rosary, with the 
cross and some of the beads missing. I 
was looking about for the rest of it 
when Mildred bethought herself of her 
jewel box in the front room. A scream 
summoned us after she reached her 
dressing table, and we all soon knew she 
had been robbed of all the jewelry she 
was not wearing for dinner.” 

“Was anything else gone?” asked one 
of the Doctor’s guests. 

‘‘No; they seem to have poked their 
noses into my bureau, but didn’t like my 
studs and cuff buttons. After that they 
apparently passed on into the room with 
the rosary.” 

‘‘Was it of any value?” 

‘‘No. That’s the mysterious part of it. 
It was one of cumbersome, red wooden 
beads, machine-made, and sold for a 
few sous at the famous church on Mont- 
martre Hill, in Paris. The elaborate 
Eglise du Sacre Coeur there is a great 
shrine for devout Catholics, and there 
are daily pilgrimages of the pious from 
all parts of France. Thousands of these 
rosaries are sold annually to the peasant 
pilgrims. When Mildred and I were 
there some years ago I bought her a 
dozen of them as souvenirs for some of 
her Catholic friends. You have no idea 
how much attention they have attracted 
because of their size and odd appear- 
ance, and Mildred has been having that 


130 


THE ROSARY FROM MONTMARTRE, 


one in the room with an ivory crucifix, 
some Madonnas and the sanctuary 
lamp ever since we got home. You 
know we call it her ‘prayer chamber.’ ” 

“And the cross was torn off?” 

“Yes, with several of the wooden 
beads. I found one later in the back 
hallway. It was a clue, showing me 
how the thieves got out. I found the 
door to the back porch unlocked. They 
must have made a dash as soon as the 
rosary fell, and ‘shinned down’ the 
porch columns. The police seem to think 
they came that way; I don’t.’’ 

“And there has been no clue?’’ 

“None, except a greasy blue handker- 
chief, dropped in the yard— one of the 
kind often used by machinists, or fire- 
men, or stokers on steamers. That isn’t 
much of a clue.” 

The Doctor was interrupted by a ser- 
vant. 

“A man, sir, at the door.” 

“I can’t be bothered with patients 
now, Jane. Let him wait in the office. 

“He’s not a patient, sir, and he won’t 
come in.” 

“Then why did you interrupt me?” 

“He insisted, sir. He won’t go away 
and he won’t come in. Leastwise, sir, I 
don’t think as how he’d better come in. 
He’s one of them greasy furriners.” 

“What does he seem to want?” 

“He axed for the missus first, for the 
madame, in his queer lingo. Then I 
told him as how he’d better wait for 
you. He muttered something I couldn’t 
ha’ caught and then he said as how he’d 
something to tell Dr. Kenton of the rob- 
bery.” 


131 


THE ROSARY FROM MONTMARTRE. 


The two guests looked up eagerly. But 
the Doctor laughed. “We’ve been so 
overrun with police and detectives, and 
police and newspaper men, and police 
and private sleuths, with sure tips, that 
I am a cynic. I don’t believe Mildred 
will ever see those jewels again. I’ve 
promised her a new collection.’ 

“Hadn’t you better see the man, dear?” 
said the hostess. “He may have some 
real news.” 

“Always hopeful, sweetheart,” said 
the Doctor, as he rose to obey her wish. 

The guests began to ask more infor- 
mation of the Doctor’s wife as the Doc- 
tor pushed aside the heavy portieres and 
passed out into his hallway. The front 
door was not quite closed. When he 
pulled it open he thought at first his 
caller had departed. Then he saw him 
in the reflection of the arc lights from 
across in Lafayette Square— a slight, 
undersized figure leaning heavily against 
one of the vestibule doors. 

“Come inside, my man,” he said. “It’s 
too cold for me out here. Come into my 
office.” 

The figure’s acceptance of the invita- 
tion was scarcely more perceptible than 
his reply was audible. 

“Vous etes le Docteur?” 

The Doctor’s French was limited, but 
not so limited that he could not answer 
this. 

“Yes, yes, my man, I am the Doctor. 
What is it you want of me?” 

A gust of wind swirled up Arlington 
avenue and tossed some snow through 
the open door. The figure in the vesti- 
bule coughed. The Doctor shivered. 


132 


THE ROSARY FROM MONTMARTRE. 


“You must come in,” he said, com- 
mandingly, “or I shall have no more to 
say to you.” 

The visitor advanced his way slowly, 
coughing several times. He seemed 
weak, for he reached out his arms for 
support from the jamb and the door. 

The Doctor had no fear. He was half 
a head taller, he weighed two stone 
more and he could have tossed the 
creeping slim figure clear out to the 
bottom step had he been so minded. But 
the man’s actions puzzled him— his slow- 
ness, his evident weakness, his cough. 
By the hall light he saw that he had on 
an automobile cap, very much the worse 
for wear, and that a loose French work- 
man’s blouse over a blue sweater was 
his sole protection from the biting cold 
February weather. 

He pointed the way into his office, and 
the little man ambled in and stood un- 
certainly beneath the chandelier until 
the Doctor had turned on the lights. 
Now that he could see the visitor’s face, 
the Doctor diagnetically made up his 
mind that he had before him a case of 
strong nervous emotion. His visitor was 
a young man, plainly a Frenchman, with 
a black moustache that had lost any 
resemblance of a jaunty curl. He was 
trembling, his cheeks were ghastly pale, 
and, in spite of the cold, there were 
drops of sweat on his forehead. His 
sharp black eyes were fastened hun- 
grily upon the Doctor. 

“Now, my man?” 

Twice the visitor essayed to speak; 
twice the words were stillborn in his 
throat. Finally he articulated: 


133 




THE ROSARY FROM MONTMARTRE, 


“Je suis— suis— I— I am de tief!” 

The Doctor was uncomprehending-. 

“You are what?” he said sharply. 

“De tief, de rob-bare.” 

Still it was unbelievable. That so bold 
a burglar should return in this way was 
so amazing as to seem fantastic. 

“You mean?” he again asked. 

The man’s hands went to his temples, 
his head fell back on his neck, his body 
twisted and he would have fallen had 
not the Doctor grabbed him. 

“Here, Mildred,’’ he called, “bring me 
some coffee— no, get that brandy off the 
sideboard.” And he unloosened the 
French lad’s collar. 

The wife and the guests rushed in in 
alarm and confusion. The Doctor was 
for the moment the professional man 
only. He stayed their questions with a 
gesture, poured brandy in the fainted 
man’s throat and rubbed more of it into 
his temples and wrists. “Bad case of 
exhaustion,” he commented, “physical 
and mental both. Nerves all gone; some 
apparent, fierce excitement. 

“What did he want with you?” asked 
the wife. 

The Doctor made no reply. He was 
listening for the lad’s heart and using 
means to get up circulation. 

“What was it about? The robbery?” 

“Oh! the robbery,” finally said the Doc- 
tor. “Why, he says he’s the thief.” He 
made the announcement as simply as if 
they were discussing trivialities. 

The others didn’t take it that way. 
They pressed him with excited, eager 
unanswered questions. 

“Let the man tell his own story,” he 


134 


THE ROSARY FROM MONTMARTRE, 


said. “For my part I don’t understand 
any more than you do.” 

When the strange visitor’s eyes opened 
they fell upon the Doctor’s wife in her 
dinner gown, still holding the brandy 
bottle. He gazed at her for a moment, 
struggling to collect his thoughts. Then 
he strove to rise. 

“Wait a minute,” said the Doctor, 
“you’ll be stronger.” 

“Non, non, non. Pour madame, pour 
madame.” He was clutching with his 
left hand at something inside his 
sweater. Presently he drew it forth. It 
was another blue handkerchief of the 
kind found in the yard. The Doctor’s 
eyes started as he saw it, but he said 
nothing, for he was too intent upon the 
visitor, who was now crawling over the 
few feet between the wife and the 
couch. He dropped the handkerchief 
bundle as he neared Mrs. Kenton, gave a 
sob and a quick indrawing breath, and, 
seizing a hem of her skirt, pressed a kiss 
upon it. 

“Lady, lady,” he said, in the best Eng- 
lish he had yet used. “Your jewels— 
jewels,” and he held the handkerchief 
up to her. 

Mrs. Kenton took the bundle in amaze- 
ment. She had been gazing with such 
fixedness at the crawling figure that she 
seemed scarcely aware of what she was 
doing. One of her rings fell from the 
bundle and was handed to her by the 
nearer of the two guests. 

“You had better count them,” said this 
guest. 

“I don’t think it necessary,” remarked 
the Doctor gently. He had studied hu- 


135 


THE ROSARY FROM MONTMARTRE. 


man nature too long-. 

The thief was again striving to find 
something inside his sweater. When he 
at last held it up to Mrs. Kenton it was 
the red cross from the wooden rosary. A 
metal figure of the crucified Christ was 
upon it. 

The thief’s eyes sought Mrs. Kent’s 
appealingly. 

“La croix— the cross,” he said, and 
then, more slowly, “you— do— not— want— 
it.” 

The appeal was not to be misunder- 
stood. 

“No, lad, no,” she replied. Something 
seemed to come up in her throat and 
choke her words. The thief’s mood was 
suddenly exultant. He kissed the cross 
again and again, he squeezed it tightly, 
he murmured phrases in Norman pa- 
tois. He forgot all about the others in 
the room until a chance glance was 
caught by one of the guests. To him the 
thief spoke: 

“Eeet is the same — le meme rosaire— as 
my poor mere geev moi when I go from 
my leetle Normandie village— one, two 
year ago. I go to La Havre to be ma- 
chiniste on ze big steamship pour l’Amer- 
ique. You know La Savoie? This to the 
Doctor, who nodded. 

“Ma mere disait, she say to me, ‘Jean 
Andre,’ she say, ‘you go far away; you 
go among les sauvages et les heretiques. 
Votre mere no want you forget votre 
eglise. Here is your mere’s rosary from 
Paris, the one blessed by the good bish- 
op after I make ze pious pilgrimage to 
the holy shrine du Sacre Coeur on the 
blessed Montmartre in Paris.’ Ma mere 


136 


THE ROSARY FROM MONTMARTRE. 


love cet rosaire. She never tire telling 
of ze glorious church and how she hear 
la messe there. I know she love cet 
rosaire. I cry when it is geev to moi— ma 
mere she cry, too.” 

There were tears in the eyes of the 
Doctor’s wife. She had dropped into a 
chair. 

The thief’s face darkened, and he told 
his story more quickly: 

“Zen on La Savoie one diable Parisien, 
who say there ees no God, he moque me 
and make fun, with oaths terrible, of le 
rosaire. He take it and wave it so— 
voila— and I see ma belle mere’s rosaire 
sink in the water. I am a demon. I try 
to kill, I choke him. Les officeurs put 
Jean Andre in irons and ven we come to 
l’Amerique I, what-you-call, get ze 
chuck. 

“I learn to run automobile in New 
York. I am ze chauffeur pour les mil- 
lionaires. I send la monnaie to ma mere 
en Normandie. Mais les compagnons 
mauvaises— sometimes men, sometimes 
women — they ruin me. Je suis silly. I 
take partie in ze auto of mon maitre. 
We get arrest. Je suis disgrace. Zey 
put me on— what you call— Black-well. 
Bad men zere; zey tell moi le monde 
owes me living; zey make me tief. Since 
I am out of le prison I am tief in maisons 
des rich men, en Larchmont, en Boston, 
en Philadelphia. Nevaire am I caught. I 
make mooch, I spend more. 

“Ven je viens a Baltimore I make 
entree house at, what-you-call, Roland 
Park” 

‘‘How did you come here?” asked the 
Doctor. 


137 


THE ROSARY FROM MONTMARTRE. 

“I sit in ze square. Man tell me of ze 
diamonds of madame.” This with a 
glance to Mrs. Kenton, whose hand closed 
more tightly on the bundle of jewels. “I 
tink maybe madame not careful when 
she have guests to dine. She leave box 
open on her table. Many madames do. 
I come in. No one dans l’appartement 
de madame. I take ze jewels. 

“I go in ze next chambre. It is the 
oratoire of madame. I see ze lamp 
sacre and I see — Mon Dieu!— mon rosaire, 
le rosaire de ma mere — the same ro- 
sary. Ah! Messieurs, you know not 
how I feel. I tremble, and ze sweat 
come like just now. ‘Fly, Jean Andre,’ I 
say, but I cannot. I go to le rosaire. It 
is the same. I read on it: 

“ ‘Sacre coeur de Jesus, Ayez pitie de 
moi.’ 

“I hear ma mere— my mother— pray. I 
too, pray for God’s pity. I say ‘Jean 
Andre, take ze rosaire. Maybe you be 
good again.’ I lay hand on ze cross; ven, 
sapriste, le rosaire break and fall, and I 
have ze cross en my hand— comme ca.” 

As he held the cross in air it seemed 
to his enthralled auditors that it was 
the greatest acting they had ever seen. 
But it was not. They were nearer the 
heart of a human being. 

“I know I am trap, like ze rat in ze 
sewer of Paris. I run. I get out and I 
climb. But ever I hold ze cross of ze 
rosaire. Ever I read the words ‘Sacre 
coeur de Jesus, Ayez pitie de moi.’ It 
is like my mere say ‘Jean Andre, you 
are tief.’ I say I will be good. I will go 
back to madame with the rosaire de 
Montmartre. Last night I sit in ze 


138 


THE ROSARY FROM MONTMARTRE. 


square and watch. But many men come, 
and I know they are Vidocqs et les jour- 
nalistes. Zen a gendarme say ‘Move on,’ 
and I grow fright. I tink maybe ze po- 
lice get jewels, nevaire Madame. Cette 
nuit je viens, and madame has jewels.” 

With the strain of his confession over, 
the French lad’s exhaustion returned, 
and he fell limply, still holding tightly 
to the cross. When he was brought 
around he fixed his eyes on the Doctor 
and asked, simply: 

“Ze police?” 

It was the calmness of a soul ready to 
be punished. 

Mrs. Kenton stirred herself. “Surely, 
Charles” 

“Certainly not, Mildred. I have no 
such idea.” 

“I am glad, dear.” Then to the lad: 
“You are to go free, Jean. You are not 
to be arrested. We will help you.” 

The lad understood. For the third 
time he seized and kissed the hem of 
her dinner gown. No one seemed to no- 
tice or to care that it was smudged 
from his hands or lips. 

“Thanks for the mercy of Christ.” he 
kept saying over and over again in 
rapid French. And his tear-dimmed eyes 
gazed lovingly on the cross. Evidently 
his thoughts had gone back to “la belle 
Normandie” and his good mother. 

One of the guests recalled him to Bal- 
timore. “You haven’t told us,” he said, 
“how you got in here the other night.” 

Jean Andre smiled for the first time. 
“Ze police zey tell you I am— what-you- 
call — ‘second-story man.’ Pouf! Zat is 
nonsense. I show you. You go in ze 


139 


THE ROSARY FROM MONTMARTRE. 


dining-room, like zat night. I out front." 

The four went back to the long-de- 
eerted table and let fall the heavy por- 
tieres. Then they stood in attitudes of 
intent listening. There was no sound 
for a full minute. "Mayne it's a trick," 
muttered one of the guests. Mrs. Kenton 
silenced him with a glance. Then they 
heard the voice of Jean Andre. 

"Madame et Messieurs!" 

When they lifted back the portieres 
the lad was coming from upstairs. Their 
amazement awakened his French vivac- 
ity. He laughed even boisterously at 
their mystified countenances. "I come 
by ze front door," he said. "I have key." 
He handed a peculiar wire to the Doc- 
tor. It was totally unlike the usual 
skeleton key. 

"Ven I was honest machinist, I was 
good machinist," he said. 

"That reminds me," said the Doctor, 
"of something I’ve been thinking. When 
you were an honest chauffeur could you 
also run an auto well?" 

"I have testimonial." 

"Then you shall be my chauffeur." 

Jean Andre looked at Mrs. Kenton. She 
was looking at her husband. 

"But you have no automobile, dear,” 
she said. 

"Well, every up-to-date doctor seems 
to be getting one," he remarked, quizzi- 
cally. 

In spite of the guests, and forgetting 
even Jean Andre, the wife put her arms 
around the husband’s neck. "You’re 
just the broadest-minded, up-to-datest 
doctor in Baltimore, you old dear." 


140 



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